


Icarus

by StellaBlue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Bad Decisions, Butterfly Effect, Community: HPFT, F/F, Fame, Feminist Themes, Friendship, Harry Potter Next Generation, LGBTQ Character, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, Science, Science Fiction, Space Flight, Time Travel, What-If, badass ladies in space, theoretical physics, young adults who don't know how to adult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaBlue/pseuds/StellaBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><img/><br/>  </p>
</div>Well, I've sort of erased Voldemort from history and trapped myself in a parallel universe, and things are pretty different now. For example, I don't actually exist. Brilliant.<p>
  <i>[Winner of 2017 Golden Chalice Award for Most Addicting Story || 2016 Keckers Award for Most Original Fic || 2015 Keckers Runner-up for Best Drama]</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I clean my flat and think about stuff.

_CAPTAIN’S LOG_  
_DAY 127_  
_11 OCTOBER 2032_

_She disembarked safely. I was sorry to see her go; she had begun to seem like one of the crew. I think she was sorry to go, too: a lot of uncertainty awaits her at the other end. But she knew what she was getting into. Part of me wishes she was staying behind to keep our spirits up – or that we could go with her and avoid this war that’s started. But I know as well as she does what will happen if we all cross over with her. Lily tried to change history and see what could have been, and only burned in the end._

_Ship’s functions appear to be running as normal, but I sense that something is not right – like time is catching up with us and we are slowly disappearing. It is possible that this will all be erased and I will never remember this log entry._

* * * * * * *

2 May 2032

I’m really bored.

I know, I shouldn’t be complaining about my life, especially not today – I should be thankful I’m even alive at all. Remembrance Day used to be a much bigger deal, in the days right after the war, when I was young. Nowadays, it’s still hugely important to my parents and everyone who grew up during the war, but to my generation it’s just a day we get off work – unless you’re unemployed, like I am, and then it’s a day like any other.

My friend Marta says I could walk into any old place and ask for a job and they’d probably give it to me, just because I’m the daughter of a famous person, and thus famous myself. But that’d be cheap. And I hate relying on fame for anything; I’m sick of being famous, but I can never escape it. I’m even named after well-known people.

Yep, that’s me – Lily Luna Potter… because my parents, who are brilliant enough to save the wizarding world, were apparently not creative enough to think of original names for any of their three children. And it runs in the family; some of my cousins on my Mum’s side are named after other family members too.

It’s quite a shame really, since my grandmother and namesake Lily Potter was apparently like the nicest woman on the planet, and gorgeous. Everyone expects me to be just like her, and then they're disappointed when they meet me and I’m not.

I suppose I'm slightly better off than Albus, though. Poor Albus Severus Potter, whose middle name comes from a man who hated Dad and apparently was in love with my namesake Lily. And of course my other brother, James, is named after our grandfather – the one who was married to Lily. Gross. I try not to think about my name too much. Thanks a lot, Dad.

(Okay, I complain, but I know none of this is really valid because I’ve always wanted to name my future daughter Hyacinth – I think it’s a lovely flower and would be a beautiful name. Everyone I’ve ever met disagrees. Even Albus thinks it’s terrible, and he knows all about terrible names.)

It’s evening, and I’m home alone. There is no firewhisky in my flat because Marta drank it all, and I have no money to go to the pub because I’m currently unemployed. My flatmate Iris has a job and a social life, so she’s not home. Maybe I’ll just visit my neighbour Lance, and if he’s home we’ll watch one of his bad superhero films (which will inevitably lead to a long debate about feminism, because women never get leading roles in those films).

But I don’t feel like sitting through two hours of car chases and shooting and men wearing capes and tights saving the day. So I make some tea and sip it slowly as I sit on the sofa, and flip through the magazines on the coffee table to see if there’s anything interesting. There isn’t – they are Iris’s magazines, mostly all of them full of knitting patterns or gardening tips. Sometimes I wonder if I live with a twenty-four-year-old or a seventy-year-old.

After the table is tidy, I stand up and wander with my half-full mug of tea, taking care that the hot liquid doesn’t slop over the rim, and straighten a crooked picture in the hallway. As I remove my hand from the top of the dark wooden frame, I look into the faces of my family as they grin back at me from the picture. It’s the most dysfunctional picture I’ve ever seen, as there are way too many people in my extended family to keep track of, and everyone in this moving photograph is running about and generally failing at being normal. But we’re all smiling.

I sit back down on the pale blue checkered sofa, and with no other distractions, I actually begin to think about Remembrance Day the way it was meant to be thought about. The picture of my Mum’s side of the family is fresh in my mind; all of the adults fought in the war. There would be more people in that picture if there hadn’t been a war or a Dark Lord killing everyone. And Dad’s side of the family would actually exist.

Mum’s parents are great. Nana Molly somehow manages to spoil all twelve of her grandchildren (one of whom – surprise! – is named after her), and Granddad Arthur tries to get all of us interested in Muggle things, for Merlin only knows what reason. He’s actually succeeded in convincing Albus to start a plug collection, so that’s always interesting to hear about at family parties: how many new plugs Albus has got for his collection. Just kidding, it’s incredibly dull.

I wish I could have known my grandparents on Dad’s side, too; they sound like they were interesting people. And I mean actually interesting, not “interesting” in the way Albus collects plugs. James stole a map off Dad’s desk once, a map that showed all of Hogwarts, including where all its inhabitants were at any moment. (When Albus and I found out about it, the map changed hands a lot at school: we were always stealing it from each other. It was easiest for me though; I’d often just leave it in my dormitory and the boys couldn’t get to it up there, due to the Gryffindor dormitory stairs changing into a slide if boys entered.)

The point of this little anecdote is that one of the creators of this map was my grandfather James Potter. (This was one of the reasons James (meaning my brother – see why this is confusing?) insisted he should have priority with it – he was older than Albus and I, and he shared the same name as one of the creators.) James Sr was apparently a lot like Uncle George – a prankster who loved to make people laugh.

But Lily and James Potter (the original ones, I mean) died when Dad was only a year old, because a Dark wizard named Voldemort killed them along with hundreds of other people. Everyone I know has friends or relatives who died in the war against Voldemort. Thirty-four years ago today was the Battle of Hogwarts, when Dad finally defeated Voldemort. It’s a day of sadness, remembrance, and happiness all rolled into one: a day for the lost loved ones, and the birth of a new wizarding world.

I often wonder what the world would be like if Voldemort had never existed: Dad’s parents would still be alive, and so would Teddy’s parents, and Uncle Fred. And I wouldn’t be a reluctant, reclusive celebrity – I’d just be a normal girl.

With dreams of a different life in which no war had intervened with my family, I drop off to sleep on the sofa.

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note: Welcome to my new novel – it’s my very first foray into Next-Gen! This was for a sci-fi challenge over on HPFF, so it’s going to be a little out there. I may as well warn you now, if you’re particularly attached to any canon ship, I suggest you run very far in the opposite direction :P Anyway, let me know what you think of it so far! Thanks for reading :)**


	2. Old and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marta's hair smells good.

I wake up to the persistent tapping and hooting of an owl pecking at the window. Groggily, I stand up from the sofa and let the owl in the window, and it disdainfully dumps a letter in my lap while I adjust my crooked glasses and get my stringy hair out of my mouth. I can’t believe I fell asleep on the sofa, and that I didn’t wake up when Iris came back in from work last night. At least I don’t have anywhere to be today. I could lounge about all day in my pyjamas, and not have a shower, and no one would care. Well, possibly Iris when she gets home and I smell.

The letter is from Mum; she and Dad have invited me over to dinner on Thursday (I’m assuming James and Albus will be there too… maybe some cousins too, but she hasn’t said). I’m pretty happy about this because even though Mum’s not that great at cooking, she’s much better than I am, and besides I can never pass up an opportunity to have someone else cook for me.

In front of the mirror, I spend about ten minutes dragging a brush through my hair to smooth out all the gnarled tangles that resulted from my sleeping on the sofa. My hair used to be reddish when I was younger, but it’s turned a kind of dull brown colour since then. I’m quite thankful for that, actually – it gives me about two more seconds between when people see me and when they recognise me. For a blissful two seconds, I’m just an ordinary girl, not the daughter of the hero of the wizarding world with the identifiable Weasley red hair.

(Actually, funny fact about identifiable Weasleys: Iris looks more like she belongs in my family than I do, as she has beautiful auburn hair and green eyes. She’s even got the flower name going for her too. If she weren’t Muggle-born, I’d have guessed she was my long-lost cousin or something. Perhaps she is anyway. I have too many cousins to keep track of.)

I toss the brush back on the table and head into the kitchen to make some breakfast. And then maybe later today I'll apply for a job, just so I can fend off any questions Mum will have about my current state of unemployment when she sees me at dinner on Thursday.

It's an ill-fated goal. I spend a good few hours searching for jobs, eventually finding some mildly interesting adverts in the _Daily Prophet_ , but by this point it's one in the afternoon and I know Marta is off work now. She works part-time at an art museum and has afternoons off sometimes. Being unemployed has its perks. So I Apparate to her place instead, just off Knockturn Alley, walk up to the peeling blue door and knock with the metal gargoyle knocker I think she made by herself, which has etched into it her surname and flat number: _Zalinski, 24a._

A nauseating smell assaults my nostrils as soon as I open the door, and I see the culprit almost immediately: a half-eaten, probably month-old bowl of noodles is sitting on the floor amidst piles of rubbish, dirty socks, and strange sculptures made out of kitchen utensils that have been welded together. I don't look closely at it, but I'm fairly sure I see a greenish tinge to the noodles. Iris would positively faint. Without introduction, I pick up the bowl, holding it at arm's length, and chuck it right into the bin. Then I wash my hands intently.

"I was going to wash that," says Marta. "It was a nice bowl. I only have one other."

Yes, I did just throw away a perfectly good bowl, but eww. Marta peers into the bin, but the bowl is cracked now. "All right," she says, "let's go rescue stuff from bins. There's perfectly good stuff in the big rubbish bins outside the flat - loads of people throw new things away."

"Marta, you can have some of mine," I insist. "Iris and I have loads of dishes, please help yourself."

"I don't want yours," she says. "Besides, this'll be fun."

So we go out behind her flat, and then a few others, and climb into the large bins. It's not my ideal way to spend an afternoon, but I did just throw away half of Marta's dish set. And anyway, we find a new bowl, and a perfectly good saute pan as well - acquired by relatively honest means rather than stealing, which Marta is prone to doing just for fun. The dishes and cookware just need a little washing, and they're as good as new! And I need a shower.

This is pretty typical of an afternoon with Marta - often we'll just wander around the Muggle world together where no one knows us, as I hate the cameras and staring that accompany me everywhere in the wizarding world. I try to keep her out of trouble, but usually end up getting involved in shady things, which makes it all the better that we only frequent Muggle establishments. It cuts down on the bad press. If Marta had her way, though, we’d be wandering around the wizarding world instead, because she enjoys being seen with Harry Potter’s daughter. I know for a fact that part of the reason she’s friends with me is because of the attention that comes with my unwanted fame; she simply beams for the cameras that come out to snap photos of me. Some paparazzi from the _Daily Prophet_ once captured a photo of Dad where Marta and I are visible in the background, and I swear she will be buried with that news clipping, she loves it that much.

Despite Marta's attraction to fame, her friendly regard for me is genuine. Or maybe it's just that I make a lot of allowances for her, as her childhood was pretty rough; her mum was a teenager when Marta was born, and Marta has still never met her parents. She's lived in seven foster homes: five wizard ones, and then two Muggle ones, and was constantly sent back to social services because she kept getting into scrapes with the law, or else ran away. Both of the times she left a Muggle home, the family had to be Obliviated after she left.

Iris and I have been best friends since the day we met in first year at Hogwarts, and we didn't get to know Marta until fourth year, as she was a Ravenclaw and not Gryffindor like Iris and me. That year, Marta took to following me around between classes to snap pictures of me and sell them to the _Daily Prophet_ , which thankfully never ended up working out for her, but Iris took Marta under her wing and eventually we wheedled the information from her about her home life. The summer between sixth and seventh year, my Mum and Dad took care of her, although they were initially hesitant due to her penchant for shoplifting and vandalism, and because of previous occasions when Marta purposefully alerted paparazzi to Dad’s presence. But I think her stay with us calmed her down a lot. We invited her to stay longer, but she wanted to get her own place. To her credit, she has been successfully living there for a couple of years now, although it is a pretty foul flat.

Marta looks over at me, her eyebrows knitted together. "You're living inside your head again, Lily," she says. It's true; a lot goes on inside my head, but I don’t usually say it out loud. I realise that somehow we've walked all the way back into Marta's flat while I've been lost in my thoughts. She leaves her new dishes in the sink, and then tells me, "Let's go over to your place."

So we go, and walk in to find Iris back from work and absorbed in a book. Marta flops onto the sofa, slouching back in a slovenly manner, her long legs stretched out to either side.

Iris frowns at her over the top of her mystery novel, which is called _Murder on the Hogwarts Express_. “Marta, that's such an unladylike way to sit,” she reprimands. “For Merlin's sake, do you ever close your legs?”

Marta snorts and grins wickedly at her, and Iris retreats behind her book again. I laugh. Iris is ridiculous, but she’s a good influence on Marta, who’s never really had a proper mother figure in her life.

“What’d you do today, Iris?” I ask. “Other than read.”

Her cheeks flush pink as she grins, but she only says, “Well… I worked, I bought that new vase in town—” she nods her head at a purple ceramic vase on the table by the sofa— “and I made a lasagna. You can have some if you want.”

“Iris Prudence Henley, you are LYING,” says Marta with relish. “You did something you don’t want to tell us about! Ooh, I’ve got it. You bought drugs. Or no – you lit a building on fire? Robbed Gringotts? You’re pregnant? I don’t know. Tell us!”

“Marta,” I say, trying to get her to stop; if she’ll only shut up, I am convinced that Iris will tell us anyway. It’s Iris’s way – she loves making us guess, but most of all, she loves surprising us.

“I’m _engaged!_ ” Iris finally exclaims, in a most un-Iris-like squeal, waving her hand excitedly in our faces to show off a ring.

“Eeeee! Oh my god!” squeals Marta, and jumps on Iris, smothering in her in a hug. I pile on top as well, burying Iris in hugs as she giggles. “Congratulations!” I say over the top of Marta’s head, which is wedged under my nose at the moment, her spiky black hair tickling my nose. It smells nice, like coconut.

Despite what Iris may think, it’s the least surprising bit of news. I’ve been expecting it for months. She and Julian Thomas have been dating for six years, and Iris is almost out of Magi-vet School, at which point she’ll have a steady job taking care of people’s sick Crups and Kneazles. (Seriously, she just cuddles kittens all day, and gets paid a lot for it. She basically has the most perfect life ever.)

I couldn't possibly be more thrilled for Iris, but I feel a sort of petty jealousy that Julian is taking her away from me. I'll miss having her as my flatmate when they move in together. But I keep these thoughts to myself as we all celebrate Iris' news accordingly.

Two days later, on Wednesday, I have actually written up half of a job application. It's considerable progress, and I'm proud of it. After all, it's more than I've done in weeks, and I really have to be able to start living on my own once Iris gets married. If even Marta can support herself with her shoddy internship, so can I. I celebrate my paltry successes by going to find the landlord and paying my rent for the month, and then head to the supermarket for a bit before returning home.

I walk in to find Marta and Iris sprawled on the sofa amidst piles of parchment, laughing (Iris’s more of a quiet giggle, and Marta’s a loud guffaw). There’s a mountain of bridal magazines on the table, covering up the usual spread of knitting magazines. For Merlin’s sake, the girl got engaged two days ago – but she has always been the type to plan ahead.

“How’s wedding planning going?” I ask.

“Well, I started,” says Iris, “but then got a bit off track when—”

“Lily, look what we found!” Marta shrieks, leaping off the sofa and shoving a few leaves of wrinkled parchment in my face. I step back and take the parchment from her, flicking through it to find an old relic of our past; it must be from fourth year at Hogwarts. The page on top says _IRIS’S FUTURE!!!_ , surrounded by love hearts, and beneath this are some scribbled lists, like boys’ names, types of cars, pets, occupations, and numbers. The following bits of parchment have similar lists but are titled with mine and Marta’s names.

“Oh, Merlin, I remember this,” I say, laughing. “Why the hell was this game ever a thing?”

“We’re kind of playing it again,” says Iris, holding up a crisp, new piece of parchment. “So retro of us. According to this, Marta’s going to live in a wheelbarrow.”

“But I’m either going to marry Neighbour Lance, or Harry Potter!” says Marta gleefully.

“Gross, Marta, you know that’s my _dad_ you’re talking about." I’m disgusted that she still has a crush on him. At least she has always been respectful enough to not be vocal about it when she's in the presence of my dad.

“The saviour of the Wizarding World, hello! And his hair hasn't gone grey yet. You'd better believe that there are more people than just me who fancy him. Your mum's quite fit too, with her Quidditch and everything, I know Ben Finch-Fletchley used to fancy–”

I stuff my fingers into my ears. “Lalala,” I say loudly. “Can't hear a word you're saying.”

“We did one for you too, while you were gone,” says Iris. “You’re going to marry Jane Macmillan, and your wedding will be in Paris. And you’ll teach Divination.”

“I can only hope I’ll be better at fortune-telling than that game is,” I say.

“Stop being a stick in the mud,” says Iris, which I find hilarious, because Iris is the biggest stick in the mud I’ve ever met. Iris shakes her head and bends over the parchment again, tapping down the words with the quill until she draws a line through some of the neat print. “Good news, for both of you. Marta will marry Neighbour Lance.”

“Wonder if I should tell him?” Marta asks with a grin, standing up from the sofa as if she’s about to go across the hall to knock on his door and propose to him right now.

“No, don’t,” says Iris calmly. “He’s already a little creeped out by you as it is – he hasn’t forgotten what you tried with him on New Year’s.”

“Sure he has,” says Marta. I laugh. Poor Lance. He’s rather shy, and Marta is just too much for him. I think that’s why she likes him though; she enjoys making people squirm. Of course, if he ever reciprocates the feelings, Marta will probably drop him like a hot Fire Crab, because that's how she is. "He's not creeped out by me," Marta continues, "I just saw him today, and he thinks I'm fantastic. Well, maybe not for long... Eh, fuck it."

Before I can ask Marta what she did this time to potentially get on Lance's bad side, Iris heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Marta, please refrain from using such foul language in the vicinity of my delicate ears.”

Marta wrinkles her nose. “You’re like a living textbook. Who speaks like that? I’m, like, almost positive that was iambic pentameter.”

“No it wasn’t,” Iris insists. “I just happen to enjoy sounding intelligent by not using common, simple words.”

“Ah. Forsooth,” says Marta with a smirk. Iris scowls at her.

I clear a space in all the parchment and magazines, and sit down beside my friends. “Talking of sounding intelligent, what will Julian think of this game?” I ask Iris, grinning as I see that her list predicts her marrying the Giant Squid that dwelt in the lake at Hogwarts.

“Ugh, that was Marta’s doing,” says Iris, and giggles again. “Oh, we should do one of these for Julian too, I’m sure he’d find it amusing.”

The game, however, is interrupted when we hear a knock at the door. Iris's lap is covered in parchment so I stand up to let in our visitor: it's our neighbour, Lance. Jokingly, I try to take up as much space as possible in the doorway as if to deny him entrance into the flat, and he grins and grabs me in a one-armed hug, easily moving me out of the way as I laugh.

"Lance!" Iris exclaims happily and stands up to greet him. Marta lounges even more on the sofa, stretching her legs out to show them off, but rather than looking sexy she just looks silly, as she's surrounded by the parchment game with doodles and hearts all over it.

"I hear you got engaged," Lance says to Iris. "Congratulations!" He produces a bottle of wine from behind his back. 

"Thank you," says Iris, her eyes teary. She invites Lance in to stay for a while, although she'll be leaving soon to go to Julian's for the night. With glasses of wine in hand, after a toast to Iris, we all sit and chat, though after a while Iris and Lance just catch up on Muggle news for a bit, as Lance’s Dad is a Muggle and both of Iris’s parents are as well, so they understand each other’s need to discuss the world outside the magical bubble. Marta keeps interjecting with irrelevant information about Muggle politicians and singers whom I think don't actually exist, and I just listen. Eventually, after many hugs, Iris heads out to Julian's, Marta goes into the kitchen, and Lance turns to me.

"So, any news on the job front, Lily?" he asks.

"Yeah," I lie easily, "some stuff. Social work. I'm waiting to hear back about my application." This is the story I'm going to tell Mum and Dad at dinner tomorrow when they inevitably ask.

"That's great," says Lance. "You'd be brilliant at it, and of course since you're famous, people will listen to you and you'll make a huge difference."

"That's not really how it works," I say. "I don't want to just use my father's fame to be noticed, I want to do something on my own merit."

"I'm not saying use that connection to get a job, I mean once you have the job... you have an advantage, and you can do a lot of good with it. You know, with great power comes great responsibility."

"Ugh, you didn't come over just to quote Superman, did you?"

He looks offended. "First of all, Spiderman, not Superman. They may both wear red and blue but they are _completely_ different, Lily. And it wasn't him, it was his uncle who said that."

"Whatever." If Lance wants to talk about Muggle superheroes, he really should be talking to Iris, not me. She loves that stuff.

Marta strolls back in with a large bag of pistachios. "You're out of ice cream," she says, and sits on the sofa next to Lance.

"Damn," I say. We wouldn't be out if Marta didn't come over and eat it all the time, but I don't mention that. "So, Lance, enough about me - how's work going for you?"

"It's good," says Lance. He has an internship in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic where I'm fairly certain he talks to ghosts. "Marta came to visit me today, actually."

"No way!" I say, looking over at Marta, who grins and loudly snaps a pistachio shell. "How come she gets to go, but you wouldn't let me visit and talk to the ghosts of my grandparents?"

"Because she wasn't doing anything she's not allowed to do," says Lance pointedly. "She just wanted to get lunch, and on the way she saw the corridor and my office, that's it."

I'm shocked; Marta is _always_ doing things she's not allowed. Has Lance actually managed to get her to stop?

"Well, I _wanted_ to do more than just get lunch, babe," says Marta with a lopsided grin. "But I understand, you have to keep up a good reputation at work. I suppose there's always next time."

Lance ducks his head a bit to scratch behind his ear, and coughs uncomfortably. This only makes Marta's grin wider. She stretches one leg out and rests her bare foot on Lance's lap.

"Why do I ever hang out with you?" he mutters.

"Because think how boring your life would be without me," she says. She removes her leg from Lance's lap, and he relaxes. And then Marta offers the bag of pistachios to us, so we all just sit around the table and chat, until Lance heads back across the hallway to his flat, and Marta Apparates home. What a weird, though sadly typical, night.

As I'm brushing my teeth about ten minutes after Marta and Lance have left, I notice an unfamiliar sound coming from the kitchen; a sort of mechanical humming. I wonder briefly if Iris got a robot Pygmy Puff, as that’s the closest thing I can think of that would make this sort of noise.

There’s a large silver cube sitting atop the kitchen worktop, next to the wooden chopping board. As I lean closer, I’m able to determine that this is the source of the humming sound… but what in Merlin’s name is it? I’ve never seen it before, and it certainly doesn’t look like a kitchen tool. Perhaps it’s Lance’s, and it actually is a robot; he would have something like that. I pick it up, tap it against the worktop a couple of times, and nothing happens. It continues humming. So I put it in a bag, which I then put into a cupboard – this mutes the sound somewhat. And then I leave it there, and head to bed. I’ll ask Iris about the cube in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: The story is still setting up, so I realise most of the sci-fi elements of this story have not shown up yet - but they will, I promise :p**
> 
> **Disclaimer: I do not own _Murder on the Orient Express_ , which is by Agatha Christie. I also do not own Spiderman, by Stan Lee.**


	3. Cultivated Arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Iris and I have a conversation consisting solely of eyebrow movements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful BookDinosaur, who leaves amazing reviews and is constantly pressing me to write this fic and stop being lazy. And it worked, because here’s a new chapter finally! Thanks Emily!

It's three minutes into dinner on Thursday and already Albus's jacket potatoes have exploded from his plate. I grin across the table at James, while Albus scowls and fires a green bean at him.

Dad heaves a sigh, and the corner of Mum's mouth twists upward. The two of them share a glance and then Mum says to us, "How old are you three, again?"

James, as polite as can be, looks properly abashed as he says, "I'm so sorry, Mum... I thought that was the sole reason you got us all together every now and then. You know, sentimental food fights for old times’ sake."

Dad laughs, then tries to pretend he didn't, since he is always insisting he won't take sides in these sorts of things. Mum shakes her head, and then, clearly giving up at trying to get her unruly children to behave like the adults we are supposed to be, turns to me. "Lily, how's Marta these days?" she asks.

"She's great," I say. "Still has the same internship at the art museum but she's making it work."

"There haven't been any reports filed about her in over a year," Dad attests. "Sounds like she's keeping out of trouble, at any rate."

Dad works in the Auror Office at the Ministry and knows everyone who knows anyone, so of course it'd be easy for him to find that out. Sometimes it was easier when my parents didn't know Marta as well - they asked me a lot fewer questions back then.

"I do still worry about her," says Mum. "Which reminds me, I baked some biscuits this afternoon and I've got some for you to take to Marta."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled, thanks," I reply. I might not enjoy being constantly fussed over by my parents, but Marta loves it when she gets that attention. Especially when biscuits are involved.

"Are there biscuits for us, too?" asks James. You'd never guess that he's actually twenty-eight, not eight.

"For everyone except you," says Albus.

The conversation then turns to James' work, which is a fortunate turn of events for me as now I don't have to sit here and spew out lies about my nonexistent job. I continue steering the conversation by asking James questions about how his second novel is going. James is a writer, and keeps insisting he's on the verge of a big break and that his new book will be a bestseller. I can only hope so; I remember when his first one came out and the best review it got in the _Daily Prophet_ was from an old, washed up author who went mad. This is what he said about James' book: _A fascinating little story, which doesn't quite hold a candle to the story of my adventures with the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, but is worth reading if you have nothing better to do and don't have enough money to buy 'Wanderings with Werewolves'._

Considering that, it's a bit pathetic that James is more successful in a career than I am. 

Then Albus surprises us all by informing us that he's going to China with Scorpius, just because. Mum raises her eyebrows, but Albus doesn’t elaborate. I don’t think Mum has ever been a big fan of the fact that Albus and Scorpius are dating, seeing as Scorpius’ father was her mortal enemy at school, or something. But she’s happy that Albus is happy. Dad’s adjusted all right, too, considering he and Draco Malfoy were even more mortal-enemies back in the day.

When James and I try to pry, Albus just swears at us - in Chinese of course, so we all have no idea what he's saying and Mum can't reprimand him. I know it was swearing, because I see that little glint in his eye that always shows up when he gets away with something. I kind of wonder if that’s all he’s learnt of the language, though.

After dinner, I go back home for an early night in. Inspired by my brother's patheticness, I finish up my partial job application and get it all ready to send in first thing tomorrow, before I join Iris in the sitting room. I flop down in my favourite blue chair, pick up a book from the table (one of Iris’s mystery novels: _Cat Among the Owls_ ), and begin to read. I’m about four pages in when there’s a loud knock at the door, and in strolls Marta Zalinski before Iris or I have had a chance to react. 

“Ladies, put away your books and come with me to the Leaky!” she cries, placing her hands on her hips. Marta has come prepared to just whisk off to the pub this very minute; she’s dressed to the nines in black boots and a short red dress that shows off the tattoos all along her right arm, and there even appears to be glitter in her black hair. Marta doesn’t really need to try that hard - she’s always been very striking, even if she puts no effort into her appearance at all.

I shrug lazily and Iris politely says, "No thanks, Marta, not today."

“Ughhhh,” says Marta. “Why are my two best friends introverts? You both suck. I’ll just have to find something else to entertain myself.”

I look up over the top of my book across the room at Iris, who’s watching me too. It’s a familiar situation, and I know we’re thinking the same thing. One of us has to go chaperone Marta, or else she’ll end up breaking windows downtown like she did once before.

Iris raises her eyebrows at me, as if to indicate, _Are you going to go?_

I scowl at her. _It’s your turn. I went last time_.

Her eyes briefly dart down at her book, and then back up at me. _But I only have thirty pages left of this book_.

 _Fine_ , I roll my eyes. Then I turn my head to Marta and say out loud, “I’ll go with you, Marta. But we’re going to Steve’s, not the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Sounds good to me!” she says.

Steve's is a sort of seedy Muggle pub, and our favourite place for nights out. It suits Marta and me quite nicely - I enjoy the lack of wizard company, and she enjoys the high number of low caliber, sketchy blokes she can hook up with. To each their own, I guess. Iris is too classy to ever set foot in such an establishment. Come to that, she rarely even sets foot in Marta's flat, which looks and smells like a hippogriff lives there. Or maybe died there.

As it's a week-night, I'm hoping it won't be too busy - and thankfully, it's not. It's pleasantly dark and gloomy and there are a few scattered people absorbed in conversations. But as we grab seats by the bar, Marta’s eyes are fixed on something behind me, and then she ushers me aside. “Switch places with me,” she says, and moves around me, much to my confusion, until she explains. “Your ex is over there,” says Marta, inclining her head to the left. I whip around, and sure enough, there’s Anna, sitting in the corner with a beer and a new girl.

“What’s she doing here?” I ask indignantly. “Shouldn’t she be at the Leaky, or a wizarding pub at least? This is _my_ place.” Sighing, I position myself on the barstool so that my ex-girlfriend is behind me again and out of my sight, so all I see is Marta.

"Throw something at her and tell her to get out," Marta suggests. I ignore her advice and change the subject.

"Guess what - I found the weirdest thing in my kitchen last night, it just showed up. I meant to ask Iris about it this morning but I forgot - it's a metallic cube that hums and it's really heavy. I've never seen anything like it before."

"Ooh, I was wondering where that was," says Marta unexpectedly.

"Er... it's yours?"

“Nicked it,” she says. “From the Ministry!”

I stare at her for a moment, slack-jawed, before I admonish her, “Marta, you can’t steal from the Ministry.”

“But it’s from the Department of Mysteries,” she says, as if this validates her theft. “It’s probably really cool, does something interesting… or at least it’s expensive."

The Department of Mysteries. She must have stolen it when she visited Lance. “And when someone finds out, then Lance will get fired, or sent to Azkaban if that's a really important thing you took!"

She licks her teeth thoughtfully. “Oh. Yeah, I guess. Blimey. I mean, I figured he'd be cross with me, but I didn't think about him getting fired.”

I scowl at Marta, but it’s difficult for me to stay angry at her. Even when she pulls out an old, grubby-looking pipe a few seconds later, full of Gillyweed. She lights it and is engulfed in green smoke, which I wave away, gagging. Gillyweed is not meant to be smoked - the stench is foul. And smoking it in a Muggle pub most certainly violates the Statute of Secrecy in probably eighty-five different ways.

As I sit there coughing and fanning away the green haze, Marta offers the pipe to me. With a quick glance around at the few curious onlookers we have attracted, I hurriedly extinguish the pipe. Marta shrugs forlornly.

"It smelt like the mouldy spaghetti I found in your flat yesterday," I tell her defensively.

But Marta has already moved on. "Lily, I've made leaps and bounds since then. Lance and I made pierogi for dinner and they were brilliant."

I raise an eyebrow curiously in response.

"What?!" she exclaims. "I _am_ actually decent at cooking, when I have proper ingredients. I just hate cleaning my dishes. That's why Lance and I have it all worked out now, since he hates cooking. So I cooked and he did the washing up."

"That's a great idea," I agree, musing privately that Marta and Lance are quite suited to one another... aside from Marta's inability to remain interested in just one person (particularly one as grounded as Lance), and Lance's discomfort with Marta's attention-seeking flightiness. And the fact that she just stole something from his department at work that could get him fired. So maybe they'd only be suited to each other as platonic friends who cook and clean for each other in a couple-y way. It's all very confusing.

"I'm always full of great ideas," says Marta.

I clear my throat; 'always' is a bit of an overstatement. “Need I remind you that you _robbed the Ministry of Magic_.”

She waves a dismissive hand, which nearly hits a blond man standing at the bar. "How do you know that wasn't a good idea?" she asks. "I mean, now that we already have it - think what an opportunity we have, if we're careful with it and then sneak it right back where I found it, no harm done. Did you see the screen on it? Aren't you even a bit curious what it does?"

I frown as I consider it, and try to recall if it had a screen, but before I can answer, she slips away into the crowd with her empty glass of whisky. I hope she's going to get me another drink too, but I don't count on it. And while I'm sitting there, draining the last few drops of my gin and tonic, the blond bloke Marta almost smacked in the face earlier appears in Marta's vacated spot.

“Aren’t you Harry Potter’s daughter?” the bloke asks. Ugh. I came to a Muggle pub to escape all this. Why the hell is there a wizard here? Has Steve’s Pub suddenly become the cool place to be for magical folk? I still haven’t forgotten that Anna is here too. I just want to go home and read my book.

“Who?” I ask blandly.

“You are, I know it,” he says with a grin. “Lily?”

“No,” I insist, “my name is _Marta_.” I say this last word much louder, and sure enough I feel a presence at my left elbow in a matter of seconds. She's back.

“Well, hello,” says Marta’s smooth voice. I look up to see her smiling seductively at the guy, trying to draw his attention away from me. And it works. Ha, Marta is brilliant.

“Hi,” the bloke says, looking between Marta and me now, as if he can’t decide who he should talk to: the famous girl, or the girl who’s obviously hitting on him. “I’m Conor,” he finally says to both of us.

“I’m Cecilia,” says Marta without a pause; this is old hat for us. And actually, I find the name rather appropriate for her, because she breaks people’s hearts and shakes their confidence daily. Mostly just mine, but she doesn't know that.

"Nice to meet you, Cecilia," says Conor. "You know, I heard a word of your conversation earlier," he continues, and my stomach clenches - he didn't hear the bit about robbing the Ministry, did he? - "you were discussing magic. But you should be careful talking about magic in a place like this."

Marta, smooth as ever, laughs it away. "Marta and I are professional magicians," she says. "We live in a batik tent and we can do palm reading, card tricks, pull rabbits from hats, you name it! We can be contracted for birthday parties as well, when's your birthday?"

Conor laughs. "You're a clever one," he says. "And I might have even believed you, if you didn't have a wand sticking out the top of your boot."

"It takes a wizard to notice one," says Marta, shrugging. "No one else would have thought anything of it. So what are you doing here, then? It's not a typical place to find people like you."

So Conor and Marta begin chatting, and I grab Marta's whisky when she isn't looking; she has enough to entertain her. It's not as good as Firewhisky, but it's okay. After what feels like no time at all, Marta turns to me and says, "Conor and I are headed out to a party where Devil’s Snare will be playing! Conor knows them personally. It's going to be amazing. Come with us, Lil!"

"'Lil'?" asks Conor shrewdly; I wish he wouldn't. "Short for 'Lily'? I knew it, I knew your name wasn't really Marta."

Marta places a hand on Conor's shoulder and insists, "Her name is Marta, I only call her Lil 'cos she's so short."

I nod in agreement, slouching in my seat so Conor can't tell that I'm actually half an inch taller than Marta. "I'm all right," I say. "I'm not really in the mood for loud music tonight. But you go on, have fun!"

"Always!" says Marta with a grin. And then I wonder if I'm doing the right thing by letting Marta run off with a weird, annoying bloke. But he doesn't seem like the type to smash windows and spray graffiti on walls just for fun, so I suppose that's something.

Before she turns around, I add, “And I want to hear all about this tomorrow, so don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Of course,” she says. She gives me a friendly kiss on the cheek and disappears out the door before she can see the pink flush that creeps up my face. It’s absurd that this still happens to me after we’ve been friends for all these years, and I’ve known all along that it’s impossible anyway. With Marta no longer here, the pub seems dimmer and grimier. I pay my tab and head for the door.

When I get home, Iris and Julian are cuddled together on the sofa, both reading books, almost like they’re an old married couple already. If Iris weren’t my best friend, the sight would almost be _too_ sweet.

Julian looks up from his book; I see he has delved into my discarded copy of _Cat Among the Owls_ , and has read much more of it than I did before I left a few hours ago, and I'm a little jealous. It was shaping up to be a good book. He says hello, and Iris asks me how my evening was. There's not a lot to say about it. So I let them get back to their reading, and I walk into the kitchen, where I open up the cupboard and then the bag that contains Marta's contraband.

I get a weird, tingly feeling when I pull the cube out of the bag, and I'm not sure whether it's because I'm holding an important stolen item, or because it's got an electrical current or something running through it. I would ask Albus, because he understands electricity after taking Muggle Studies in school and collecting plugs since forever ago, but he'd be about as understanding as Iris concerning my current possession of stolen things. There's no one I can talk to about it, and Marta's words ring in my ears. _Aren't you even a bit curious what it does?_ In the end we'll have to sneak it back into Lance's office anyway - what's the harm if I examine it a little before we do so?

As I sit there on the floor, I notice that a fairly decent number of our plates are missing from the cupboard. The only person I can think of who steals things is Marta, but she hasn't been by since last night. Odd that it should coincide with the appearance of this strange cube, as if the cube stole our dishes.

Well, Iris probably brought the dishes to Julian's and accidentally left them there. Mystery solved (Monsieur Pamplemousse, the detective Auror in _Cat Among the Owls_ , would be proud of me). So I try to figure out the cube. I raise it up to my ear, magnifying the humming noise. Then I move it closer to my eyes so I can look at it in detail. There are thin, wiry markings etched into it, perhaps some sort of rune. Marta mentioned a screen earlier, but I don't see one; I turn it around to view it from all angles and finally see something I hadn't noticed before: a small circle on one side that's slightly concave. Instinctively, I press it, and the cube comes to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I am still not Agatha Christie, so I do not own _Cat Among the Pigeons_. Nor do I own the song ‘Cecilia’ which is by Simon and Garfunkel.**
> 
> **Hmm, things are a-changin'! Drop me a line and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading.**


	4. Playing with Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I purchase ugly socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the fantastic Chiara, who has been such an amazing reviewer on all my stories. Thanks for all your support, it means so much to me! ♥

There are some whirring sounds and a loud, mechanical _beep_ , and a dial appears on the box. I look around the corner cautiously, to see if Iris and Julian have noticed, but perhaps their reading is too interesting, because they’re still sitting there, cuddled up together, their noses buried in their respective books. My attention shifts back to the cube in my hand. I can feel the energy radiating from it into my hand and through my veins, like it’s full of some powerful force that’s trying to get out.

Holding the cube in my left hand, I turn the dial clockwise with my right, and beneath it, the metallic surface lights up with a turquoise hue, and figures are moving across it. Person-shaped figures. It’s the screen Marta was talking about - like a moving photograph. One of the figures comes into focus - it’s me! The me in the screen is just looking back at me, like a mirror. I turn the dial once more, and there I am again, this time with Lance.

As I watch, the screen grows, almost as if it’s projected upwards out of the cube, and sound emerges from the image of myself and Lance. Apparently, we’re having a conversation about _Spider-Man II_ , which Lance says is his favourite film.

It’s funny; I don’t recall us ever having that conversation. Besides, I know that Lance’s favourite film is in fact _Ludwig, the Half-Android Dolphin Tamer_ , so I’m confused. Perhaps this screen shows the future, and Lance is going to decide he has changed his mind about his favourite film. Why can’t this device show me something more useful about the future, such as who is going to be the next Minister of Magic, or whether it will rain tomorrow? Or whether I’ll get the job I’m hoping for?

“How’s Anna?” the image of Lance asks on the screen. My eyes snap back to the shadowy blue figures as Lance continues, “Almost two years you’ve been together now - do you two have any big plans for tomorrow?”

“We’re going out to dinner at some posh restaurant,” says my double. I have no idea how to interpret it; this is not possibly the future. Does the cube show what _could_ have been? A different life, what it would have been if Anna and I had stayed together?

In the adjoining room, I hear Julian and Iris laughing together, and recall the beginning of my night, when Marta ran off happily with a stranger, and before that, when my brother decided to take what sounds a lot like a honeymoon holiday with Scorpius. My love life has been stagnant for months, and watching some alternate version of myself beam widely and talk about Anna makes me rather nostalgic, particularly as I sit alone on the floor of my kitchen with the company of only a strange cube full of fantasies. Although my friends can distract me from it during the days, it’s night now, and I’m lonely. I find myself drawn to the image floating out of the cube in front of me, and reach my hand out at it, but my hand goes through it like smoke.

It reminds me of a story Dad once told about a big stone basin that had memories in it, and if you stuck your head in, you would slip inside the memory like a bystander watching it all happen. I have the sudden urge to see what my life would be like in this fantasy world, so I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and stick my head through the shimmering projected screen.

After a few seconds of a weird sizzling noise, when I have determined that nothing at all has happened, I pull my head back and set the cube down on the linoleum floor. The figures in the screen have changed, though; it’s flipping between images of Lance eating a pizza, and Iris and Julian reading their books. It’s kind of weird, actually - this is like a creepy spying device. No wonder it’s been hidden so long in the basement of the Ministry of Magic.

Feeling slightly deflated, I stand up again and set the cube on the kitchen worktop, but experience a mild shock when I notice Anna’s favourite purple jumper draped over a chair in the kitchen. I pick it up and inhale deeply, then set it down again and peer around the corner into the sitting room, where Iris and Julian are still reading, but on the end table next to the old pictures of Iris and me, and a few of Iris and Julian, are framed photographs of myself and Anna.

I’ve done it: crossed over into the image in the cube.

“I thought you headed over to Anna’s fifteen minutes ago?” Iris asks, and I jump.

“I… I did, but I forgot something,” I stutter.

Iris looks concerned. “You all right?”

I’ve lost my cool, and Iris can see it in my eyes, I know it. “I’m great,” I say. Should I tell her what’s happened? Or… has anything even happened? This could all be a vision brought to me by the cube.

Now the real question is what to do. Apparently, the version of myself who lives here has just gone to see Anna, and Iris expects me to return there. Should I go? What will happen if I visit? I’ll meet myself - will the other me panic? Will Anna and I both think there’s someone breaking into the flat, disguised with Polyjuice Potion? Or have I replaced the Lily who lives in this alternate reality? It’s a little too much for me to comprehend right now. I need time to process what has happened and where I really am before I proceed. So I duck back out of the conversation with Iris and return to the kitchen, where the cube remains, its smoky blue screen still spying on Lance picking the olives off his pizza.

I thrust my head back into the screen, and find myself sitting on the floor of the kitchen again; a quick glance around reveals that Anna’s jumper is gone. I turn the dial on the cube to the left, and the screen vanishes. And when I press the little concave circle on the back, the dial disappears as well. I hide the cube out of sight in my fist as I walk out of the kitchen, intending to stow it somewhere in my bedroom where no one will find it.

“What’ve you been doing all this time?” asks Iris as she sees me exiting the kitchen. The photos of Anna are no longer on the tables.

“I was searching for our dishes,” I say. “We seem to have lost some plates.”

Before she can ask if I found them again, I’m back in my room, and I hide the cube in my wardrobe. I climb into bed and it's a good three hours of tossing and turning, my brain working at the speed of light, before I actually drop off to sleep.

***

It's Friday morning. I've sent in my job application by owl, paced thirty times around the living room, realised that it's foolish to pace around waiting to hear back about a job immediately, and made pancakes - all before nine in the morning. I truly am coming up in the world.

But I still have no idea what to do about this cube. I've looked at it fourteen times today, debating whether or not I should do anything with it. It sent me to another version of my life - something which isn't happening to me, but could have been. Or is it actually happening, and that's really another world?

Lance told me once that each decision we make creates an entire new universe. And with billions of people out there making billions of decisions - everything from deciding what brand of butter to buy, to whether or not to get married - how is there enough space out there for that many universes? Lance doesn't know either, which is quite frustrating, because if he hadn't brought it up in the first place then I wouldn't be spending so much unnecessary time wondering about an unsolvable conundrum. I just hope that during the course of his work at the Department of Mysteries, he finds out.

In the evening, when I hear Lance return from work and his door closes across the hall, I exit my flat and knock on his door. I'm hoping to bring up the idea of parallel universes to him, in a really subtle way, which will hopefully provide me with more information and help me make a decision on what to do with the cube (a decision which may spark a new universe into existence, of course, as all decisions do, according to Lance).

Lance decides to open the door (maybe that’s another universe right there), and I greet him with a smile. Although I'm maintaining the outward appearance that all is normal, I feel remarkably on edge and awkward, as I now know that I possess something stolen from him, and I'm keeping huge secrets from him. The feeling only intensifies when I see a pile of olives in the rubbish.

"You should compost those," I mutter, pointing to the olives. "Or you should have offered them to me before you chucked them in the bin; you know I love olives!"

He grins. "I would have given them to you, but I was eating that pizza late last night and I figured you weren't around. Marta told me she was planning to go out on the town with you and Iris."

"Iris didn't go," I say as we settle ourselves on the sofa.

"Damn, wish I'd known that - I would have invited her to watch _Ludwig, the Half-Android Dolphin Tamer_ with me!"

"She was busy with Julian, otherwise I'm sure she would have."

"So what's going on with you?" Lance asks. "How are things?"

"Things are good," I say. "I sent in a job application this morning."

"Right on," he says.

"How's your job these days? Still top secret, or is there anything you can talk about?" I ask because the conversation can comfortably go here without seeming like I'm intentionally leading it - we've had this conversation before - but I dread his response, and nonchalantly stretch the tenseness out of my shoulders.

"I'm studying parallel universes at the moment," he says. "Remember when you and I talked about parallel universes, months ago? Well now I'm actually working on trying to understand them - how they exist, whether they connect, and so on. There are ways to access them."

It's a good deal of information, but there's remarkably little of substance in it, and no specifics at all. "I do remember that conversation," I tell him. “So how do you get to parallel universes?”

“Well, you have to think about it in that there’s not just one universe - ‘uni’ implies that it’s one, when really it’s like a multiverse. There are infinity other versions of the world out there, of yourself, probably living different lives than what you live. Some universes are out of phase with this one, or in other dimensions; time is moving at different speeds between universes and that’s maybe why we’re not aware of them.”

It’s definitely not the answer I asked for - I asked a simple question, and this theoretical blathering of space-time continua makes no sense to me. I let out an involuntary groan. “What… what does that mean, in simple terms? I’m not an astronomer, Lance.”

He grins. “Well, it _is_ still top secret, Lils, but if you get a job in the Department then I’m sure you can learn all about it in more detail.”

I can’t ask him about the cube in particular, either, because it’s stolen. I sigh. “Do you have any more pizza left over from yesterday?”

***

It's only been a week since I applied for that job and they've contacted me for an interview. Iris says that sort of thing is supposed to take far longer, and I suspect they looked at my name and instantly contacted me, which is annoying. Or maybe it didn't take long because I just sent in my application on the deadline, eliminating the waiting period. I’m hoping it’s the latter.

Either way, I have to really impress them at the interview so I am memorable as myself and not ‘Harry Potter's daughter’. I guess the first thing I need is professional-looking dress robes. Ideally, I would borrow some off Iris, but she’s shorter and curvier than I am, so her robes would flap awkwardly around my ankles. Marta doesn’t even own dress robes, and if she did they’d be covered in paint or drips of molten cutlery. So it’s off to Gladrags for me.

The owner of Gladrags Wizardwear is a small old lady named Mrs Stebbins, who is very kind and chatty and always takes the time to get to know all of her customers as they browse the shop. She also has an affinity for rather ugly clothing, which are for sale right alongside the normal robes and dress robes. Today there’s some odd sequined robes on display, next to a shelf of socks in all sorts of neon, or flashing argyle, or socks that sing, and ones that apparently scream if they get too smelly. Who in their right mind would buy socks like that? If James bought them, his socks would be screaming all the time… So actually, maybe I’ll get them for his next birthday present.

Once inside Gladrags, I browse for a bit until Mrs Stebbins totters over to me. “Lily,” she says warmly, smiling all the way to her crinkly blue eyes. “What can I help you with today?”

“Just looking for some nice dress robes. I have an interview.”

“Oh, how exciting! I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully. Are you looking for a particular colour of dress robes? You’re fortunate you don’t have the problem your mum has - your brown hair goes with anything. And you know I went to school with your grandmother Lily, and I couldn’t even count the times she got frustrated about not being able to wear pink clothing as it clashed with her red hair. Ah - yes. How about this nice blue one?”

I examine the blue robes - they’re a bit frilly and completely not my style. “Mmm…” I mutter noncommittally, and pull out green ones that are rather plain, but sophisticated.

“That one’s lovely,” says Mrs Stebbins. “Why don’t you try it on?”

It’s a while of fitting and hem adjustment and discussion of my potential job before I finally walk out of Gladrags with my brand new green dress robes, screaming socks for James, and significantly fewer Galleons to my name. Mrs Stebbins has given me a lot to think about, as she usually does - amidst all her copious chatter, I often learn interesting things from her. Now I know that she helped out during the wars by sneaking refugee Muggle-borns out of England, and I know that my grandmother Lily never wore pink.

When I get home, I drape the dress robes over the kitchen chair - the same one where Anna’s purple jumper temporarily resided last night, in another world. The world in which Anna and I were still together didn’t seem that different, although I never met the version of myself in that world, so perhaps things were more different that I knew. But how would it be if Voldemort had never existed? Would I meet a version of myself that had grown up being spoiled by my grandmother who was thrilled to give me pink jumpers for Christmas because they didn’t look horrible with my hair?

There _is_ a way to find out, now. If Lance’s assertion is correct, then somewhere, there is a universe in which Voldemort did not exist. I only have to find a way to access that particular universe, and I can visit it for a bit. I’m only more inspired to do so when I spot Iris’ copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the table, which features a large picture of an irritated-looking Albus trying to duck out of the way of the camera.

I think back to that long-ago discussion about decisions sparking new realities as infinite possibilities create infinite universes. That whole concept still makes absolutely no sense to me, but as near as I can figure, the cube can understand decisions. The first time I used it, it felt like it was reading my brain, its electric current slithering through my veins, and it somehow knew I wanted to see a world with Anna and me together. This time, I’ll just focus on the world without Voldemort.

Eagerly, I open the door of my wardrobe and unwrap the cube from the old hole-ridden socks I’ve encased it in. I press the little concave dent on the back and listen to the intensifying humming and the loud beep, watch the dial pop out, feel the strange, unseen force permeate into my hands and up my arms. I turn the dial to produce the little teal screen, which reflects a mirror image of myself. So far, this is exactly what happened last time, and I like that. It’s predictable, meticulous, and therefore less intimidating.

I concentrate hard on my desired version of reality while gripping the cube tightly, and this time give the dial a firm twist. The figures are murky, even when the screen extends outwards. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing, because it looks different. With infinite universes out there to choose from, have I connected to the wrong one?

So I remain there, holding on to the cube, deliberating on it. There is only one way to find out, but I’m not sure if I’m brave enough in case something goes wrong. My glance falls upon Iris’ newspaper once again, and spurred into action, I thrust my head into the shimmering screen. I can always come back via this cube if I don’t end up in the right place.

The sizzling noises are louder this time, the electricity in my fingers almost too much. Something heavy lands on my toes; I think I’ve just dropped the cube, and then all of a sudden everything stops.

When I open my eyes again, I’m immediately put off guard by the way my flat smells - like laundry detergent and cinnamon and wood varnish. It’s a faint smell, but the difference is noticeable to me. And turning my head to the right, my eyes come to rest on a pile of dishes that I thought were missing from the cabinet. They’re under the sink - Merlin only knows how they got there, but there they are.

Grabbing the plates in my hand, I look around for the cube, which must have dropped and rolled away from me. When I stand up to look around, however, I stop in my tracks when I see out across the kitchen and adjoining sitting room to discover that none of the furniture is familiar, nor any of the photos, rugs, or anything - as if someone has replaced all of Iris’ and my things. The shape of the room is the same, but that’s about it. And certainly the woman standing in the doorway, frozen with her jaw hanging open, is unfamiliar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: Spider-Man is owned by Stan Lee/Marvel Comics, not me.**
> 
> **A/N: Oops. Where’s Lily? :P Thanks for reading, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on the chapter!**


	5. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance is terrible at giving hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my amazing NaNo Mums 1917farmgirl, Lululuna, and MrsJaydeMalfoy, because without their support I’d probably still just be watching cat videos. Infinite thanks :)

Neither the woman nor I say anything, as we remain staring at each other, both apparently startled into silence. We are perfectly still for a moment, me hunched over by the kitchen sink holding a small stack of my lost dishes, and her a few feet away, hand gripping the doorjamb. And then I extend my arm to put my dishes on the worktop, and she straightens up, smoothing out a big wrinkle in the blue fabric of her hijab, her dark eyes trained on me like a hawk. “How did you get in here?” she asks crisply.

“Err…” I say after a pause, clueless as to how to describe it. In an attempt at explanation I gesture to the metal cube on the floor next to me… only then I realise it’s not there at all. A dull panic rises inside me as I scan the floor for it, but I can’t see the cube. I crouch down on my knees and search through the shelf under the kitchen sink, where the dishes were, and I vaguely register the woman shouting at me and footsteps clicking closer on the floor as it hits me that the cube is simply gone.

So, here I am in some unknown woman’s house, probably in a parallel universe… and I’ve dropped the cube back in my own world, meaning I have no foreseeable way to get back. Grand.

Another moment of panic prompts me to check for my wand, which is tucked into my left sock, and thankfully, it’s still there. So my situation isn’t as unbelievably horrific as it could have been, at least.

“Hello? Yes, I think someone’s just broken into my flat,” I hear the woman saying, and look up to see that she is on the fellytone, or whatever the hell that thing is called, and from the sounds of it, she’s called the Muggle Aurors.

“No,” I cry urgently, raising my hands and waving them erratically. “It’s all a mistake, I didn’t break in, I’m just — I don’t know what’s happened! Who are you?”

She glares at me, talking over my frantic pleas, until she presses a button on the device, ending the conversation, and hovers near the table. The table that should have my brand new green dress robes on it, but instead has little cards of wallpaper samples. But this is no longer my flat, apparently. I am an intruder.

So where do I actually live, then?

I begin again my attempt to connect with the woman, telling her my name. I must admit I’m a bit surprised she doesn’t recognise me, but then I recall the fellytone and realise that of course, as a Muggle, she’d have no idea who I am. The irony is almost too much, as isn’t this what I always wanted? To be unrecognisable, just a normal person? But now I’m an unknown stranger who’s apparently broken into my own house, where someone else lives.

It’s no use. I can’t particularly blame the woman, though. And if I Obliviate her, then I’ll still have to contend with a force of Muggle Aurors who are probably on their way at this very second, and if there’s more than one of them I might not be able to get away with it. So with no way to explain myself without breaking the Statute of Secrecy, I decide to just run for it. I stand up fully, give another quick cursory glance around the floor to ensure that the cube is really not there, and dash around the dividing wall, turn left into the sitting room and then out the door of the flat. Across the hallway is Lance’s door, and I pound on it.

As I stand waiting, an unpleasant thought strikes me: Lance may not indeed live here at all, as apparently Iris and I don’t. But then the door opens, and I sigh, awash with relief as I stare into the face of my neighbour and friend.

“Lance, thank _Merlin_. I don’t know what I’ve just done, but it’s bad. I really do need a straight answer on parallel universes this time.”

But he only stares at me, his thick eyebrows knitting a little closer together. “I — who _are_ you? And how did you know my name?”

My jaw drops, for the second time in the past ten minutes, and I feel as if my stomach has dropped out, as if I’m completely empty inside. “I’m Lily! Lily Potter, one of your best friends — how…? You don’t recognise me?”

“We’ve never met, no.”

“But you’ve heard of me?”

“No.”

So, in this version of reality, I have never met Lance. I begin to wonder if I’ve come to the right universe at all, or if I instead transported to one where I was never born. “Did Voldemort ever exist?” I finally whisper to the confused Lance.

“Who?”

His answer is almost proof enough, but I explain, just in case he lives under a rock. “Dark wizard, about thirty years ago.”

“Never heard of him,” says Lance. “Listen, what’s going on? Are you… all right?”

As I ponder how on earth to answer that question, a wailing noise grows louder outside the building, increasing and decreasing in pitch as it goes around a corner, and I turn my head to the right to see, out the front window of the building, a car with flashing lights. I hear the doorknob of my own flat rattle behind me, as if the occupant is coming to greet the Muggle Aurors, and I push by Lance in his doorway and charge into his flat, shutting the door behind us. “You’ve got to help me, and I’m sorry about barging in like this, I’m not usually like this, but I’ve come from a parallel universe and you’re the only person I know who can understand.”

His flat looks exactly the same as it did when I visited him yesterday, apart from the fact that here he still has little red paper lanterns up from Chinese New Year, which was three months ago; perhaps without Iris and me living next door, no one forced him to tidy up his flat.

Lance scowls. “I’m all for helping people out, but you can’t just run into a stranger’s flat like this and — are you running from the police?”

“We’re not _strangers_ , Lance, we do know each other — or, well, a version of ourselves does, somewhere. And of course I’m not running from the police.” To distract him from this line of inquiry, I add, “Your mum, Cho Chang, dated my dad at Hogwarts, you know.”

“Your dad is Cedric Diggory?” Lance asks, successfully thrown off, even as the thud of boots sounds right outside the door. “But, no, he doesn’t have any daughters. Wait, how do you even know who my mum is?”

“No… I’ll tell you the whole story though, if you stop interrupting,” I say. My head hurts, and I just want to curl up on my favourite blue sofa and read a book. But I don’t have that blue sofa anymore, not here.

So Lance, still wary of me, and without inviting me to sit down, remains at a distance from me with a perplexed scowl on his face and crossed arms, as I tell him that parallel universes are real and I’m from one in which Voldemort killed my grandparents and I want to meet them, but different people live in the flat I occupied back home. And although I acknowledge that I arrived here via a multiple-universe-connecting device invented by the Ministry which got left behind when I crossed over, I carefully eliminate the fact that it was stolen from his own office.

In ironic contrast to the discussion Lance and I had just yesterday in this very place, now I am the one trying to explain as much as I can without revealing too much information, and he is the one who’s confused.

Because he still seems suspicious, as if I’m inventing a ludicrous falsehood, I tell him all the things I know about him to convince him that I really do know him - such as the fact that he was a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, and doesn’t like olives, and his birthday is the 31st of December, and the name of that crap film he loves about the half-android who trains dolphins. All of this unnerves him, but I think he realises that I have something to my story and it’s not just rubbish.

While I’ve been talking, the sound of the boots has receded back out to the street outside; the police have left. I am far less panicky now, in a familiar place with a familiar person, without the police chasing me down. And Lance seems less jumpy now that he sees I’m not a serial killer or robber or anyone about to cause trouble in his flat.

This version of Lance still works in the Department of Mysteries, which is good. But he says he’s never heard of a device like the one I’ve described.

Now I’m really not sure what else to do; nor is Lance. I’m not even sure what I want from him - maybe just someone to listen. So I decide that maybe, since I’m stuck here anyway without any foreseeable way to return home, it’s time to find Lily and James the first; the best way to do this, obviously, is through Dad.

“Hey, Lance, does my Dad still work at the Ministry?”

“Cedric Diggory?”

“No, Harry Potter. Head of the Auror department, or at least he is in my world.” ( _My world_ … It’s such a weird phrase to say, as if I’m explaining to Muggles about the wizarding world, but I guess I’ll have to get used to it here.)

“I don’t know him,” says Lance. “And the head of the Aurors is a bloke called Colin Creevey.”

“Oh,” I say, my breath catching in my throat - Dad has mentioned Colin Creevey before as someone who fought against Voldemort and died far too young. “Well, can you bring me to the Ministry and I’ll look for him?”

Lance’s eyes narrow. “I’ve barely met you and already you’ve forced yourself into my flat while evading the police, told me you know all about my life, and now you’re asking me to bring you to work with me, in the offices of the magical government. I’m sorry, but no.”

I sigh in irritation - back home, he let Marta visit, and I’m a hell of a lot more trustworthy than she is. “I wasn’t evading the police,” I insist. “And we haven’t just met, I’ve known you forever! How else would I know the things I told you? Don’t you believe me?”

“Well,” says Lance haltingly, “yes. I believe that there are parallel universes, and that you may have come from one where we’re friends. And I really do wish you the best of luck finding who you’re looking for. But I can’t bring you to work with me, unless you just want to visit the Ministry building.” 

“That’s enough for me.”

“Well, they’ll just be closing down for the day. And tomorrow - well, they’ll open a bit later since it’s Saturday, but we can go in then.”

“Thank you,” I gush. With a plan, finally, I glance out the window, where the streaming late afternoon light is golden, and wonder what else awaits me out there.

Lance seems to have followed my eyes. “Do you want to take a walk out there?” he asks. I imagine he’s rather curious, as I am, about all the differences between our two worlds.

So we walk out of the building and turn right to walk down the street. It’s noisier than what I’m used to. A man is walking his Yorkshire terrier along the pavement just ahead of us, and he waits while the dog stops for a moment. But then as the dog starts trotting off again, the man pulls out a wand and Vanishes away the poo.

“Is he _insane?_ ” I hiss to Lance. “That is _definitely_ against the Statute of Secrecy - he didn’t even look to see if there are Muggles around!”

Lance looks mildly amused. “The Statute of Secrecy?” he repeats. “That’s old history; they did away with it seventeen years ago, in 2015.”

I just gawp at him, and then stare back at the wizard and his dog ahead of us. “Don’t the Muggles… care? Was there a big deal about it?”

“No, it all came about after this Muggle scientist introduced the first spacecraft… I take it that’s different too?” he asks, noticing that my mouth is still hanging open. I close it and surreptitiously rub my face as if to make sure I haven’t dribbled while I’ve been staring this whole time.

Lance then proceeds to tell me about space travel and Muggle technology and how wizards and Muggles made this weird spaceship and now there are loads of them. I feel utterly lost, like I’ve stepped into the scene of _Ludwig, the Half-Android Dolphin Tamer II_ and _III parts 1 and 2_ , the rubbish sequels about Ludwig’s adventures in space and subsequent new life on another planet populated by robotic whales. Spaceships only exist in fiction, I had thought, but there’s one over my head right now. And it’s absolutely unreal to see it - a huge cylinder flanked with red lights rocketing overhead, on its way to distant stars.

Perhaps where I came from, Voldemort killed the Muggle who would have been responsible for inventing space travel. The ripples that one event can have on the future are unfathomable to comprehend. The butterfly effect, I’ve heard it called: when something small like the wings of a butterfly can potentially create waves of change and consequence, eventually influencing the paths of hurricanes. So they say. (Whoever ‘they’ are.)

“What else is different for you?” asks Lance, after giving me a while to stare at the spaceships in awe. “Is the Minister for Magic still old Myrtle Saunders?”

“No, I’ve never heard of her.”

“She’s brilliant. But she must be nearly a hundred - she’s got really thick glasses and I don’t know if she can even see anymore. She’s stepping down this year.”

Myrtle with thick glasses. The only one I know of is… well, Lance can’t _possibly_ be referring to Moaning Myrtle, resident depressed ghost of the Hogwarts second-floor girls’ toilet, can he? She was killed by Voldemort’s monster about eighty or ninety years ago. But without Voldemort… an entirely new world is possible.

“There was a ghost named Myrtle who haunted a toilet at Hogwarts,” I inform Lance. “Where I’m from, I mean. I’ve no idea what her surname was, though.”

“There wasn’t a toilet ghost when I went there,” Lance laughs. “But there were ghosts for each of the houses - the Bloody Baron, the Fat Friar, the Grey Lady…”

“Yeah, they were there for me too.” As those ghosts have been ghosts for about a thousand years, I wouldn’t have expected the removal of Voldemort to do anything to them anyway.

But one thing Lance’s mention of the Grey Lady has brought up in my mind is that Rowena Ravenclaw’s famed lost diadem may still be in the tree in Albania where she hid it a thousand years ago, because wasn’t it Voldemort who took it out? (Dad always glossed over this portion of the story, as he did with most stories relating to the war - but now I’m wishing I had paid a bit more attention.)

What it means, however, is that if I wanted to, I could go visit Hogwarts and ask the Grey Lady herself where it is, then find the tree and use the diadem. I’d be the first person to use it in over a thousand years. Amazing to think that it’s still around, and I may be the only person alive who knows where it is (relatively). I wasn’t a Ravenclaw, but surely I’d be able to be figure out how it works. I’d love to be smarter. Maybe it would help me think of a way to get home from this mess I’ve landed myself in. I could gain all the knowledge of parallel universes and build my own dimension-hopping cube!

Or maybe I should stop messing with things that I don’t understand, to prevent things from getting any worse. I hear Granddad Arthur’s words from many years ago coming back in perfect clarity: that you can’t trust things if you don’t know where they keep their brain. But then again, I see him trying to play with electricity and where does _that_ keep its brain? No one knows.

I look up to see Lance watching me. “Where were you?” he asks.

“I was in the same place as here, only a different timeline that had a homicidal dark wizard,” I tell him.

Lance laughs. “No, I mean just now. I asked you a question and you were spacing out.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“How is it, adjusting to all of this?” Lance asks. “Are you dealing with it all right?”

“Yeah. It’s a lot to take in. But… I suppose I was expecting things to be different. I just wasn’t expecting _everything_ to change, when most of it had no connection to Voldemort.”

Lance nods. “So… what now?” I look up to observe that we’ve made a full circle back to the front of his flat; the sun is setting, tinting the cloudy horizon pink and purple.

It’s nearly dusk, and I don’t have anywhere to stay. I think Lance has realised this, and that’s what he means by the question. “Er… since we’re going to the Ministry together tomorrow anyway, would it be horrible if I slept on your sofa?” I ask. “Or do you know of anywhere else I can stay? My flat is currently inhabited by someone else, and I don’t know where I actually live in this reality.”

He looks uncomfortable. Although according to him, we have only just met, so it’s a reasonable reaction. But he is a nice person, and I’m incredibly relieved, although not entirely surprised, when he says “No, it’s all right.”

“Thank you!” I exclaim, and throw my arms around him in a tight hug. He gives me a delayed, half-hearted pat on the back with one hand, but is otherwise kind of awkward about it. Typical Lance.

When I let go of him, he leads me into the flat, shooting me suspicious glances again. Maybe he feels weird about having a girl who’s practically a stranger sleep over at his flat, as that’s really not something he does normally.

We walk inside, and he directs me to a few folded blankets piled on the end of the sofa; I gratefully accept them and stretch them out on the cushions to form my makeshift bed. Lance bids me goodnight and goes off into his room, while I curl up in the soft woolen blankets on the sofa, wondering what on earth I’m in for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Too much filler? Too confusing? Was it anything like what you expected? I'd love to know what you think! Thanks for reading :)**


	6. Tabula Rasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are bad puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the wonderful Julie. Thanks so much for all your continued enthusiasm about this story, even though I’m the slowest writer on the planet!

Well, here we are, at the Ministry of Magic. It looks pretty different, as I have come to expect after less than twenty-four hours in this parallel universe: there’s still a fountain in the atrium, but it’s got a statue of a Sphinx rather than one of centaurs and house-elves. It’s quite cool, actually. And at the check-in desk, there’s a line for wizards, and another for visiting Muggles. I guess they now give basic tours or something. I don’t like it.

As most of the Ministry Departments I’m familiar with relate to keeping the Muggles from knowing about the existence of magic, I suspect that a great deal of the inner workings of the Ministry have changed - probably rather than hiding magic, there’s loads of offices devoted to working directly with Muggles to make sure our governments get along. So really, they probably do nothing at all.

Lance and I walk up to the welcome desk, where a bored looking woman is smacking her gum and trying to get her wand to spin on its end like a top. She has a crooked white name badge pinned on to her jumper that says ‘Shirley’. As I approach, Shirley blows a big blue bubble with her gum, which floats away like a balloon, and then she turns to me. “How can I help you?”

“Er, yes, I’m looking for my father, Harry Potter, I think he works here.”

“Department?”

“I don’t know.”

Shirley frowns a bit, eyeing me more intently. “How can you not know where your father works?”

“Erm… estranged father,” I invent. “I was adopted. Isn’t there a list anywhere that has all employees’ names on it?”

Shirley’s expression softens; my lie has worked. But Lance, beside me, looks suspicious. Behind the desk, Shirley grabs her wand up and opens a big file drawer. “Well, we have files by department, but not for the entire organisation… I’ll just take a moment to search. Harry Potter, you said?”

It’s strange to see someone have no reaction to the information that my father is Harry Potter; here, the name is not synonymous with the Chosen One who saved the wizarding world. I nod to Shirley, and she tries to Summon any information about Harry Potter, but nothing turns up. Apparently, he didn’t work here. But when I think about it, Voldemort likely had a large influence on Dad’s decision to become an Auror and fight off Dark Wizards. Maybe here, he isn’t an Auror at all.

“What about James or Lily Potter?” I ask Shirley. It’s far-fetched, but I have no idea where they worked, as they didn’t have much time to work during their short life in my world; perhaps here they worked at the Ministry.

A file zooms into Shirley’s hand; a list of personnel. “There was a James Potter here in the eighties,” she says. “In the Ludicrous Patents Office; that’s in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Is that who you’re looking for?”

“Yes!” I cry excitedly, even though it might not actually be him; James Potter isn’t a particularly unusual name. “Is there — do you have any information on him?”

“Sure. I’ll just need to see your wand first, and then I’ll have Eric take you to the records library. And your name, please?” Shirley holds out a hand for my wand.

“Lily Potter,” I tell her, handing over my wand; Shirley places it on a little bronze scale, waits for a moment, and then frowns.

“This wand isn’t registered,” she says abruptly. “Where and when did you get this?”

“Thirteen years ago,” I tell her honestly, and then to prevent her from snooping and finding out anything weird from Ollivanders to contradict me, I add, “At Franklin’s in Canberra. I grew up in Australia.” Then I look to Lance. 

“What about your wand, Lance?” I offer. “Maybe yours would work better?”

Shirley raises a thin, pencil-drawn eyebrow as she regards me. “Unless Mr Pritchard here is a family member of yours, his wand will not suffice.”

“‘Course he is, he’s my adoptive brother.”

Lance hesitates, then finally places his wand on the desk, and Shirley picks it up to visually inspect it.

“I see,” says Shirley, and sets the wand on the scale, watching me warily the whole time; clearly she hasn’t forgotten that I avoided her unasked question about the probably nonexistent Australian wand shop. Never before have I gotten so many suspicious looks as I have in the past day. It’s very unnerving. But at least they’re not asking me for Dad’s autograph, so there is a bright side.

“You never told me you had an adopted sister, Mr Pritchard,” Shirley tells Lance. “Is this true?”

Lance stares at her for a second, his lips pressed together in a thin line, before he confirms, “Yeah.”

His wand checks out, as the scale prints off a little piece of paper, which Shirley reads off to us (“Thirteen inches, poplar and unicorn hair, been in use fourteen years?”), and then she sends a memo in the form of a scribbled note on a slip of parchment in which the writing vanishes, reappearing, no doubt, on someone else’s parchment in another part of the building. I grin, as these are the same as I am accustomed to. Soon enough, a bloke comes down to the desk and greets us.

“Afternoon,” he says. “I’m Eric. I understand you’re looking for the records library?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

We walk along a maze of wood-panelled corridors until we reach a heavy carved door, which Eric opens, and instructs us to wait outside while he enters the cramped room full of dusty cabinets. Eventually he returns with a piece of parchment, featuring James Potter’s address from 1989. I thank Eric, and as there’s nothing else I need from him, he returns to his work.

I realise then how utterly useless this mission was; there’s a great chance that this address from forty years ago is no longer valid. I make a face at Lance, squinting my eyes and scrunching up my nose.

“Why can’t you just send your grandparents an owl?” he asks.

“It’s not as easy as that. I’m assuming there’s a double of me in this universe, but I don’t know what she is up to; for all I know, the me in this reality is at my grandparents’ house right now, and then what would they think if they got an owl from me? Or, because my wand isn’t even registered here, I might not exist at all. No one has heard of me, not even you – maybe I was never born.”

Lance raises an eyebrow in disbelief – or he tries to, but he’s not very good at it and it makes him look like he’s just listened to a really sad song. “You didn’t plan this out at all, did you?”

“Yes, I did,” I insist. I _did_ have a plan, at first, but seeing how different things are now, my plan is useless, not to mention that I lost my only means of returning home, which has altered my priorities. I suppose it wasn’t that good of a plan anyway, as I didn’t even understand the cube in the first place, and I couldn’t have gotten any information about it because even having it was illegal. This really was doomed from the start. How am I just realising this now? Even Marta would have come up with a better plan, which is embarrassing.

He sighs. “Well, you have your information. Is there anything else you need from me?”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t just using you as a way to get what I want,” I insist to him. “I… I’m sorry if it seemed that way.”

“I’m not doing this again, either,” he says. “I never lie, and I had to lie for you back there.”

I am truly a horrible influence on him. “Sorry. I appreciate you covering for me though.”

“Okay,” says Lance absently. “Well, I spend all week here at the Ministry, so if you’re done here, I’m going to leave so I can spend my afternoon hiding in my flat, maybe reading, maybe watching a film.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll, er, visit this address. Is that legal? Or am I going to get arrested for stalking?”

He cracks a smile. “Just don’t do anything stupid. I’ll see you later, I guess.”

We both head out of the Ministry building, and then Lance Apparates – plain as day, in view of a Muggle. I will never get used to this. But as it doesn’t seem to be an issue here, I take one last look at the penned address on the tiny scroll of parchment in my hand, close my eyes, and twirl on my heel.

Moments later, after the unpleasant feeling that I’ve been shut into a tight coffin for a second, I arrive on a quiet street lined with tidy rows of oak trees, in front of a small brick house. I stand on the pavement, staring at the house. I pace back and forth. Then I sit down on the edge of the pavement, my feet on the empty road and my back to the house, and I just think.

What I try not to think about is that I should have done all this thinking much earlier, and then I wouldn’t have found myself up shit creek without a paddle, because the paddle got left behind in another universe. Instead, I attempt to focus on how to get myself out of this situation I’ve gotten myself into.

I came here on a whim, just because I was curious what the world would be like without Voldemort and because I had the means to see it. But I never thought about the more personal side of this experiment; what it would _actually_ mean to meet my grandparents. I begin to compose a list in my head, of the many possibilities of what could happen from here on out:

One possibility is that I meet the original Lily and James, and I tell them I’m from a universe in which they’re dead, so how nice it is to finally meet them! Then, they’ll probably conclude that I’m mental, because who the hell says they’re from a parallel universe?

Another option: I don’t tell them I’m from a different universe, but I pretend to be the Lily who exists here; I’ll just meet them and say hello and act like this is a perfectly normal visit to my grandparents. The only downside is that I just don’t have enough information to be convincing; it might be a bit awkward since I don’t actually know them and despite my prowess at lying, I might have trouble answering any questions or talking about anything because they might not match the life of the real Lily II here. This will only work if I actually have a double here, but again, I don’t know enough, and I don’t know where to find out.

Or, Lily and James are dead anyway because they’re over seventy.

It is also feasible that I could meet the version of myself that exists in this reality, if she exists – maybe she’s visiting my grandparents – and she’ll either get weirded out by my very existence, or we’ll become best friends.

And I still have no idea how to get home.

There are just too many variables. I can’t plan ahead for what’s going to happen; I have to just figure it out as it comes. So I get up off the pavement and walk up to the red wooden door. Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell and wait.

*

When no-one opens the door after two minutes, I’m forced to conclude that no one is home. My rapidly beating heart slows down once more and sinks in my chest as I just stare blankly at that red door, and eventually I walk back out to the pavement and sit with my feet out in the road again, at least until a coughing noise nearly startles me out of my skin.

I turn my head rapidly to the right, towards the end of the cul-de-sac, and there is Lance, a smirk on his face. That git. “You _followed_ me?” I ask, frowning. “I thought you had things to do?”

“I was making sure you didn’t get into trouble,” he says. “After you lied to Shirley, I have to admit I really didn’t know what you were up to at all; you could have been lying to me, too. And if you were telling the truth, I wanted to see how it would go.”

“I wasn’t lying to you,” I affirm. “But it didn’t go well, as you see.” I continue sitting there, wondering whether I should wait until my grandparents get back home, or whether I should just give up and leave. As much as I want to meet them, to make this whole trip worthwhile, the second option unfortunately sounds the most feasible. I still don’t even know if this is the right house, anyway.

The excitement of this whole idea has worn off. I miss Iris, and Marta, and the real Lance – the one who already expects me to lie all the time and trusts me anyway. I feel like nothing but a stranger here, a stranger to the whole world. It’s time to give up and go home. “How do I get back home?” I eventually ask him. “Am I stuck in this parallel universe?”

He just watches me blankly. I suppose it is pretty weird for him – I just walked into his life yesterday claiming that I know him, and now I’m expecting him to get me out of the situation. Frustrated, I stare at the road again.

“If you’re only trying to get back, I know of someone else who might be able to help,” says Lance finally. “Someone I work with in the Department of Mysteries. She’s been studying alternate dimensions, so I think she might know enough to help you. I can send Miriam an owl and maybe you can meet up with her.”

“You mean Miriam Zhou?” I ask. 

“I – yes actually, how do you know her?”

Lance (well, the Original Lance) has told me about her before. As the story goes, during the second war, Miriam accidentally transported herself centuries back in time while cleaning up shards of broken Time-Turners, which led to her actually inventing the Time-Turner. I can’t really wrap my mind around it. But since it all happened because of a battle in the Department of Mysteries during the war, maybe it means…

“Lance, do Time-Turners even exist here?”

“What’s that?”

In some strange twist of fate, the nonexistence of Voldemort has created a world in which Muggles have invented spaceships, and wizards have not yet figured out time travel. It’s entirely backwards. I wonder if our knowledge of time travel was what prompted our exploration of inter-universe travel? And because time travel hasn’t happened, maybe that’s why Lance’s department hasn’t invented the universe-hopping cube yet.

My head hurts from all this thinking. But I thank Lance for his suggestion and he tells me he’ll send an owl to Miriam when he gets back home.

“How about a pint?” he offers. “Or some food? If you like Chinese food, I know a good place.”

Lance’s Mum, Cho, owns a Chinese restaurant on Diagon Alley, two doors down from the Leaky Cauldron. It has a door out into Muggle London in the back, which is useful as Lance’s Dad is a Muggle and that hidden door makes it easy for him to visit. I like the idea of going there, because it’s familiar – it sounds like the same restaurant I know. But ultimately I decide that I need a drink after the past two days I’ve had.

And so we find ourselves on a familiar street, one Marta and I used to visit frequently, on our way to one of our favourite haunts. But in the place of Steve’s, the pub we always used to go to back home, there’s a different pub – although, as I discover when I enter, Steve is still the owner. Rather than the grimy, American-Wild-West vibe of Steve’s, this place is sleek: The walls are decorated with old typewriters on shelves, and the overhead light fixture looks like a spaceship, not to mention the UFO-shaped tray of chips a man has at the bar, as he taps away at a typewriter. It’s quite an odd combination of décor, but it seems a popular place.

“Welcome to ‘The Space Bar’,” Lance says. I groan. I see the owner Steve has not lost his fondness for bad puns.

So we get some sandwiches and drinks, and we even get an impromptu poem written for us by the man at the bar with the typewriter. We spend the majority of our visit there laughing quietly at the contents of the poem, which is mostly just rhyming descriptions of the two of us.

“Wearing a red shirt, has raven hair,” I sing softly as we depart the Space Bar some time later, when the sky is dark and the city lights twinkle around us. “If you spill beer on my typewriter, you’d better beware…”

“Oi!”

I laugh. “He’ll be a famous poet one day, I’m sure.”

We’ve reached the pavement, where a girl is standing between the pub and the street, smoking a cigarette and wearing a thick leather jacket over a skimpy black dress. Her collarbone is prominent, her knees knobby, and there are circles around her downcast eyes. She looks like a potion addict, and I pay her little attention. But suddenly she looks up, and despite the unfamiliarly long hair, under that short dark fringe there is no mistaking the eyes of Marta Zalinski. I can only stare, gobsmacked, until Marta raises her eyebrows at me expectantly.

“Marta,” I whisper, suddenly feeling quite ill.

She stares at me, folding her skinny arms across her chest, impatiently tapping the ashes off the end of her cigarette onto the pavement by her left foot. “Who the fuck are you?” she asks, in a gravelly voice that bears little resemblance to _my_ Marta. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, of course,” I begin adamantly, but then jump tracks. “Well, I’m sure we’ve met. We must have gone to Hogwarts together?”

Because what has become evident is that I can’t go on telling everyone I meet here that I’m from a parallel universe – I was lucky that Lance believed me, and I think that was only because he studies parallel universes and knows they exist. Marta will not give me that chance, I’m certain. So perhaps it’s time to reinvent myself, since my original plan is gone to seed and I apparently don’t have the same friends here – I may not even exist at all, based on the evidence I’ve gathered.

She shakes her head. “You must have me confused with someone else. I have to go to work.” And she brushes by us, heading down the pavement a bit and straight into a dark doorway with flashing pink lights above it in the shape of legs. I grimace. This can’t be real.

After Marta vanishes into the doorway, I turn to Lance. “You know her?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, I did,” I say. “But she’s… different.”

I can’t let Marta go just like that. So I march right in through the door, and behind me Lance protests, but eventually follows. I can’t find Marta – maybe she’s gone backstage already, so Lance and I sit at a table awkwardly, where I sulk and he fidgets uncomfortably and stares at the exit door with great intensity.

How can this wretched existence be Marta’s life here? For some reason, it seems the two of us never met in this universe, so she’s never had anyone properly looking after her. Back home, Marta had some issues, but I’d never considered what would happen to her without the consistent friendship of me and Iris. What about Iris, then? Where is she?

A quick glance up tells me that Marta is performing, and I go back to looking anywhere except at the stage. Lance’s eyes briefly dart over towards the stage a couple of times, and eventually I smack his arm. “Don’t _look_ at her,” I hiss.

“Why are we even here?” he asks. “You just dragged me in here, and that man over there is giving me the stink eye, as if I’m someone who’s just dragged his girlfriend to a strip club; that’s what it looks like. I want to leave. I’m leaving in five minutes whether or not you come with me.”

“I have to talk to her!”

“She clearly didn’t want to talk to you.”

“That’s because she was in a hurry to get back to work,” I say, more to convince myself than Lance. “She’ll listen.”

“What exactly are you going to say to her?”

“I… I don’t know. I want to tell her to get out of here and be friends with me.”

“How is _that_ going to work?”

“Well, only yesterday you and I became friends even though you didn’t like me at first. And if Marta and I were friends once we can do it again too!” But, of course, I’m fairly sure the only reason Marta first became friends with me back home was because I was famous. Here, I’m nothing. What’s in it for her?

“Does it even matter, if you’re just going to go home to your world anyway?” Lance asks.

Our bickering fortunately keeps him from leaving when he planned to, and Marta shows up at our table as we’re discussing how I can bribe her to be my friend – my current idea is that I’ll pretend to be rich. I look up when I sense her presence, and there she is, frowning, her leather jacket back on. “Are you _following_ me?” she demands.

“What?” I ask. “No, we just decided to drop in, but it’s nice to see you again. Join me and my friend here – I think you’d like Lance a lot.”

Marta snorts. “Lance a lot,” she repeats.

I can’t help grinning. Somewhere deep inside, this Marta is the same dorky Ravenclaw obsessed with history whom I’ve always known. For a brief moment I think I’ve won her over, but she shakes her head again. “You didn’t come here just to stare at the table. If you follow me any more I’ll tell security. Get out.”

Lance stands up to leave immediately. Between Marta and me, there’s sort of a face-off in which I don’t want to give up yet again, and I just stare at her, hoping she’ll change her mind, while she stares back as if waiting to back her words with action. But then I gather up my bag. “We’re really rich and would be good friends for you,” I add hastily before Lance and I make our exit, but Marta is unmoved.

It’s only when we make it back out to the street that the weight of everything today hits me – all the unknowns of what has changed, seeing changes I don’t like, and above all my complete lack of control over it all – and I break down in tears. Lance gives me an awkward pat on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: The chapter title is Latin for ‘clean slate’.**


	7. Lily, Meet Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I get into a fight with an automobile and lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Meg (MegGonagall), for being such a consistently wonderful reader and reviewer. You always have the best theories and predictions! :D Thanks for all your support.

_“You ever experimented with girls, Lil?” Marta asked, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling above her bed. We were in the Ravenclaw fifth years’ dormitory, a rather cold and airy room, and not nearly as comfortable as the Gryffindor one, but very elegant. Far more elegant than one of its inhabitants._

_“What do you mean, have I experimented with them? I’m not, like, hiding people in a laboratory and performing tests on them.”_

_We both laughed, hers a loud guffaw that terminated in a snort. “Not like that.”_

_The door clicked. “There you are,” said Iris’s voice. “It took me ages to solve that riddle! I much prefer a password.” She stood at the foot of Marta’s bed, hesitantly._

_“Join us!” said Marta, patting the space between her and me._

_“There’s not enough room for all of us on that bed,” Iris insisted. “Maybe if I were thin like you, then we could, but I won’t fit there. I’d squish you.”_

_Iris’ insecurity went right over Marta’s head. “Then sit on us and we’ll move over. Merlin, Iris, just get over here.” She grabbed Iris’ yellow sleeve and dragged her over to the bed, where they both collapsed on me, laughing._

_“I was just asking Lily if she’s ever kissed a girl,” Marta informed Iris._

_I shook my head. “Of course not! I’ve never even thought about anyone other than Ibrahim, because we’re in love, and it’s real.” I paused, deciding that it was irrelevant to mention to her that my first crush had been Darlene Llewellyn, lead singer of the all-girl band the Augureys, because I’d long forgotten my childhood crush (and decided I didn’t like the Augureys anymore). Instead I returned my thoughts to Ibrahim, and I lay back beside my friends and smiled blissfully as I recalled the last time I’d seen my boyfriend, which was at breakfast. We’d shared all of our food. “Have you?”_

_“Oh yeah,” said Marta. “Loads of times.” (I found out later that this was untrue.)_

_“Ew,” said Iris, frowning at Marta’s hand._

_Marta smirked. “Don’t tell me the idea makes you uncomfortable.”_

_Iris scoffed. “No. That’s a silly thing to say. You know I was raised by two dads, so I’d be the last person to judge – I’m very much in support of people loving who they will and being happy. I only disliked your unnecessarily vulgar hand gesture. It’s uncouth,” she said sniffily._

_“Oh,” said Marta. “Well. Would either of you ever kiss a girl?”_

_“No,” I said. “Ibrahim and I will be together forever – there’s no one else for me.”_

_As it happened, all of my claims became false only two weeks later, when Ibrahim broke up with me, implying he wanted someone more interesting. At the time, I wasn’t the most vivacious person; I liked tidiness and rules and books, which was why Iris and I got on so well. But Ibrahim dumping me made me want to do rash, impulsive things just to prove to him that I could and that he was missing out._

_So when Marta came to me soon after my breakup, and, in her own way of commiserating, offered to make out with me as Ibrahim walked by in the corridor, I, the heartbroken and stupid sixteen year old that I was, took her up on her offer – not knowing what realisations that moment would spark, and completely not anticipating the ensuing confusion and eventual further heartbreak that stemmed from falling in love with a straight girl. For Marta was only going through an experimental phase, and I was the naïve subject._

*

I roll over in my blankets on the sofa, glaring at the stupid sunlight streaming through the stupid window, stupidly early in the morning. (Well, it’s not _that_ early – it’s probably about nine thirty.) All I want is for my brain to shut down again and let me be in peace, rather than thinking about Marta and replaying last night’s events in my mind. Even though she’s not really the same person as she was back in my version of the world, I still care about her just as much; she’s still Marta. Only here, she doesn’t even know who I am. And it hurts.

Grabbing my glasses off of the table by the sofa, I sit up in resignation; the brightness of the room has ensured I won’t be going back to sleep. Hopefully Lance has contacted Miriam in the Department of Mysteries to see if she can help me travel between universes; the sooner I’m able to get home, the better. With my glasses on, I can now identify the former blur on the table as a note for me, which says:

_Had to go to work, but I’ll be back this afternoon. See you then. Help yourself to anything from the kitchen._

So I get up and make some eggs, toast, and tea. My mind is still unable to stop turning, and I barely even notice when I’m just sitting there at the table with an empty plate and mug, my breakfast long finished, staring out the window but lost in my own head. So I decide to just go for a walk outside; maybe that will clear my thoughts. 

I wander along a tree-lined pavement. Ahead of me, three people are walking – an elderly man and woman, and a man who looks to be about forty. I’m at a weird distance behind them, such that I can hear their whole conversation, but they’re not going slowly enough that I can pass them without rushing. Twice I slow down, but always end up accidentally speeding up again when I stop concentrating on walking slowly. While I’m fretting about my awkward following distance, I gather that the younger man is named Henry, and is probably the son of the older couple.

Henry has a very unique way of walking that reminds me of Dad – his knees sometimes sort of knock into one another. In fact, at least from behind, Henry kind of looks like he could have been Dad’s younger brother, if Dad had siblings. And suddenly I get a strange, eerie feeling about this group, and increase my pace to look at all of them more closely. The older couple appears to be about seventy, the man with grey hair and thick glasses, and the woman with thin white hair. I can’t be sure, but…

My heart stops. There’s no way – but they must be – _have I actually just met my grandparents?_

Granddad James (I assume) turns towards me. Probably because I’ve just been staring open-mouthed at him for about fifteen seconds, and it’s hard to not notice that. His eyes, now that I can see them, are hazel. And aside from the crow’s feet, they look just like mine.

I’m frozen in place, and for the first time, utterly speechless. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. I just never thought it would happen – even when I showed up here in this world, I never pictured it happening just like this.

Suddenly his expression turns to one of alarm, and before I can register why, I hear the loud squeal of tyres while simultaneously something slams into my legs and knocks me sideways off my feet, and I end up sprawled on the cobblestones. An acrid smell of burnt rubber reaches my nostrils and I look up, bewildered, to see the nose of a car right over me.

A second later, a middle-aged man in a tweed suit rushes out of the driver’s side door and over to me. The sound of opera with a woman’s soaring, heavily-vibratoed voice emanates from the radio inside the car. “My most sincere and profuse apologies,” the man splutters, flustered. “I looked down at my map and then suddenly there you were, I didn’t see you at all. Are you hurt?”

It takes me a moment to evaluate whether or not I’m hurt – there’s still too much adrenaline coursing through my system for me to feel anything else. I can see that my palms and my left knee are scraped up and will most likely bruise, but otherwise I feel fine.

“I’m all right,” I tell him.

He offers an arm up, and I take it. “I’d never had a bad experience with a map in my life,” he explains. “Can you imagine it, a geography teacher getting into a scrape because of a map! The irony.”

“Right.”

He evaluates me again. “Are you quite sure you’re all right? I really am so sorry. Anything I can do? If you need a plaster for your knee, I have some in my car.”

The man strongly reminds me of the stories Iris has told me about her Squib next-door neighbour when she was growing up, who is also a geography teacher and rather peculiar in mannerisms. “I’ll be fine, thank you,” I assure him.

This calms him somewhat – I can tell he does feel quite terrible about it all – and with an awkward handshake and a wave, he is back in his car with the mellifluous arias, and drives away. The three people behind whom I was walking earlier approach, and I get out of the middle of the street intersection and step onto the pavement right next to them.

“Are you all right, dear?” the woman asks. Grandmum Lily, for whom I’m named. Her green eyes, just like Dad’s, watch me in concern. “We saw the car too late to warn you.”

“I… hello,” I stammer in a squeaky voice. “Yes, just fine, thanks.”

And then my eyes fill with tears, and I can’t stop them from escaping. So instead, I stand there crying in front of a complete stranger.

“Oh no,” says Lily, reaching out to me. “You’ve been through so much. How about a cup of tea? We just live right over there, and you can sit down. I always say a cup of tea makes everything better.”

I nod mutely, the tears still streaming down my face. My grandmother believes tea can solve anything. I never knew that about her. “Thank you,” I finally mumble.

“What?” she exclaims, leaning an ear towards me. “My hearing’s not what it used to be.”

I giggle through my tears. “Thank you,” I repeat, louder this time.

“My name is Lily,” she says kindly. “This is my husband, James, and our oldest son, Henry.”

The tears only come stronger; I’m just overwhelmed. It’s really them. Lily and James Potter, standing right in front of me.

Oh, and it turns out Dad doesn’t exist here, if Henry is their oldest son. So, obviously, I can now confirm that I don’t exist either.

But I have to introduce myself. I really can’t say my name is Lily Potter, or it will raise questions I’m not prepared to answer. So instead, I lie, immensely thankful that my friendship with Marta has trained me to lie so easily. “My name’s Hyacinth. Hyacinth Ludwig.”

Ludwig is the first thing I could think of – it’s the name of the half-android protagonist in Lance’s favourite film. I really could have thought of something better for my invented surname. But at least my first name is fabulous, and no one would ever know it’s not the truth.

“Hyacinth – that's a beautiful name,” says Henry. And immediately, although this man is not my father, and in fact seems to have replaced him, I find that I respect him.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile.

“We have some people coming round for lunch,” says Granddad as we walk (I mean James. I’m not sure what to call him even in my head). “I hope you don’t mind. But I’m sure they wouldn’t mind another visitor!”

It’s only a few minutes before we reach the house (which isn’t the same one I visited yesterday – thank Merlin no one was in at that house yesterday, or it’d have been weird).

“I should be going,” Henry tells his parents as we all reach the front porch. “Told Leah I’d meet her for lunch.”

“All right,” says James. “I’m glad you could stop by, son. It’s always good to see you.”

Henry exchanges hugs with both of his parents while I stand there on the outskirts, then Henry Apparates away, and Lily leads me inside the house.

The door opens into an airy hallway with a dark wooden floor, and a wide doorway frames the kitchen on the left. I’m surprised to see two people in the house already, sitting at the table, both probably about the same age as James and Lily. There’s a man with long hair and a long beard, and a woman wearing a horrid paisley jumper with fringes on it (it looks like the sort of thing that Mrs Stebbins would sell at Gladrags).

“We got here early, hope you don’t mind that we just Apparated in,” says the man. He laughs – a loud, rather obnoxious laugh that sounds like an elderly dog coughing.

“No problem at all, Padfoot,” says James with a grin, and my heart leaps into my throat. I’ve heard all about Padfoot, whose real name is Sirius Black: James’ best friend at Hogwarts and Dad’s godfather. He died during the second war.

“Who’s your new friend?” asks the woman with odd taste in fashion.

“This is Hyacinth,” says Lily. “She nearly got run over by a car just now, and we were there so we thought we’d fix her up with some tea.”

“Hello,” I say, keeping the smile on my face despite how difficult it’s becoming as more vanished faces from the past keep turning up.

“I’m Melanie,” says the woman genially. “And this is my husband Sirius.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” I tell them.

Lily sets water boiling in the kettle, and I kind of hover there awkwardly in the kitchen, with no idea what to talk about. These people are essentially strangers, because even though I know a lot about most of them, they have lived an entirely different life here, and thus are not the same people I’ve heard all the stories about. And despite my trying to convince myself that they’re strangers, I still can’t help but see the similarities.

“I’m very lucky you happened to be there when I was hit by the car,” I tell Lily. “Thank you so much for this.”

“Of course, dear, it’s no trouble. What a dreadful start to your day! Are you from around here?”

Technically I only live a few streets away, but I feel like I’m as far as I could possibly be from anything that’s familiar. And this world is different. I’m not from here. “No,” I say aloud, “I’m just staying with a friend who lives around here. I’m, er, from Scotland.”

“We all went to school up in the Highlands,” says James. “Long time ago. It was lovely there, though.”

For a second I’m confused, but then realise that they’re not aware I’m a witch. And why would they be? They’ve only just met me. But, as I can’t see how the absence of Voldemort would have any effect on the genetics of any of these four, I nod. “So did I. Hogwarts. I’m guessing you went there too?” I gesture to the quite obviously magical floating lamp above our heads.

“Yes, at Hogwarts,” says Lily, and then her eyes light up. “Oh, you’re probably about the age of our oldest grandchild, Ophelia. Did you know her at school? She may have been a couple of years behind you. In Gryffindor.”

This is definitely not the direction I want the conversation to go in. “I was a Slytherin,” I lie. “I don’t think I knew any Gryffindors named Ophelia.”

“I was a Slytherin too,” says Melanie.

Well, I don’t want the conversation to go this way either, because if she asks too many questions, I may not know how to answer them convincingly.

“So how long have you been visiting boring old England?” Sirius asks. “Seen anything cool?”

I laugh. “Just a few days. And, well, I saw a spaceship. That was cool.” Hopefully people still think spaceships are cool and that the novelty of them hasn’t worn off for everyone yet…

“Space technology really has improved loads in the last ten years, it’s incredible,” says Melanie.

James nods. “That’s probably a lot to do with the removal of the Statute of Secrecy. Muggle space technology was rubbish on its own, and magic couldn’t do it either, but combined, it’s really powerful.”

“Imagine interplanetary travel without magic!” says Sirius with a laugh. “It’d be so slow.”

“Do you think we’ll discover other life out there, on other planets?” I ask.

The four of them all turn to look at me, and sensing a slip-up, I add on, “I’ve sort of been living under a rock for a while, and haven’t heard about much lately.”

“It was a big story a big story a while back,” says Lily. “There’s… _something_ out there, we know for sure. What’s that they said about it, James? On Balthazar, near the research station, there was some sort of underground tunnel?”

“Right,” says James. “Something humans didn’t build, but not naturally formed either.”

“And loads of odd things were happening to the research station,” Melanie adds. “Equipment going missing, the whole building moving overnight. And a person disappeared.”

“That’s scary,” I say. I can’t imagine being in space, far from home on a base on another planet, and having eerie things happen around me.

The whistle of a boiling kettle interrupts us. “Oh, good, tea’s ready,” says Lily, and points her wand at the kettle, directing it to pour the water into a ceramic teapot with deer painted on it. The discussion has turned to speculation on when everyone else is arriving. After the tea has steeped in the pot, Lily pours tea into the five mugs on the table. 

“Do you follow Quidditch, Hyacinth?” asks James. A moment passes before I realise he’s talking to me.

“Yeah,” I say, glad to have a topic I at least have some familiarity with. Mum used to play for the Holyhead Harpies, but of course I can’t say that, just in case Mum doesn’t exist here either. “My favourite team is the Harpies. What about you?”

“Been a Puddlemere fan my whole life,” says James. “Did you catch the Puddlemere versus Harpies game last week?”

“No, I missed it!”

“Oh, it was a great game! Nearly tied until the end. Of course, you probably heard about the Harpies’ win, but Fawley did have an incredible save. There was just really good playing on both sides.”

“Those kinds of games are always the most exciting,” I agree.

Beside me, Lily turns to face Melanie on her other side. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages,” says Lily in an undertone, “what do you _really_ think of Sirius’ beard?”

But she’s not very good at whispering, and Sirius hears. “It makes me look intelligent,” he insists, stroking his beard with two fingers. “You always look intelligent and wise if you have a long beard. Remember Dumbledore?”

“Yes, dear,” says Melanie lovingly. “You’d look wiser if you hadn’t spilt tea on yourself.”

“I resent that remark,” says Sirius, Vanishing the tea off his sleeve with dignity. I manage not to laugh, but I can’t keep from smiling, and hide it behind my mug of tea.

These people all seem so fun, and I like them a lot, but this Lily and James aren’t really my grandparents. They’re who my grandparents would have been if not for the war, but have entirely different experiences from what made them who they were back home. Maybe they have the same personalities, but they’re not the same people. It’s an odd thought.

Suddenly the doorbell rings, and two men walk in, one carrying a casserole dish. “Hi everyone!” says the shorter one, who has small eyes and a rat-like face. A chorus of voices at the table around me reply with “Good to see you, Peter” and “Hi, Bertram, come on in.”

“Just heard from Remus,” Peter continues. “He and Marlene aren’t coming, because Marlene has dragon pox.”

“Rotten luck,” says the other man, Bertram. “We sent a card, though.”

“Oh, how terrible,” says Lily. “Poor Marlene.”

Peter and Bertram come in, and as there are only six chairs around the table, and my mug of tea is empty, I take it as my cue to head out. So I mention that I should be going and that I’ll let them get to their lunch; I stand up, thank Lily and James for the tea and hospitality, and bid all six of them goodbye.

I walk slowly along the pavement, my mind still dwelling on what I’ve just experienced. I finally met them! And it wasn’t anything like what I expected – apparently if there was no war, my brother James would actually be a girl named Ophelia. I wonder if a time machine would have been a better venture for getting to know my grandparents. But I don’t flirt with that idea too long; I’ve already got myself in enough of a mess being stuck in an alternate dimension – there’s no need to get stuck in the 1970s or 1980s as well. I’ve learned that I should probably just let the past lie. There was a war, people died, and my grandparents were amazing people who I’ll never meet. The closest I have is being named after Lily, and for the first time I’m kind of proud of that instead of just annoyed at all the confusion it causes.

And then I return home to Lance’s flat, all the while wondering if he’s asked his co-worker about the possibility of me meeting her and figuring out a way back through the universes to my real home, where I have a place to live, where I have a supportive network of lots of family and friends, where Marta is all right, and where people must be worrying by now that I’m not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fun fact: Balthazar (the planet mentioned by Lily) is named after a minor Shakespeare character (the name is found in _Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, A Comedy of Errors,_ and _Much Ado About Nothing_ , so I’m not sure which to say I took it from :P). A lot of moons of planets in our own solar system are named after Shakespeare characters so it actually took a while to find one that wasn’t already in use!**
> 
> **Truth time: I originally intended James to be with someone else and for Snape/Lily to be a thing. Like, I was just going to mess with all the ships because I could, and because Snily COULD have been possible without Voldemort around. But the closer I came to writing it, the more I couldn’t do it! Because Snape probably still would have got mixed up with dark magic even without Voldemort, and that would still drive Lily away eventually. Besides, turns out I love Jily TOO MUCH. :P**
> 
> **And this meeting wasn’t supposed to happen until about halfway through the novel, but somehow here it is. Sometimes I wonder if the story just writes itself. What did you think of Lily actually meeting her grandparents? Predictions about what’s coming next? (It’s okay, I don’t really know either! Bahaha!)**
> 
> **Thanks for reading, all of you wonderful people.  
> **   
> 


	8. Facing the Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I discover a new favourite conversation opener.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Joseph, one of the nicest reviewers in the world! ♥ And he also inspired me to outline this story, which means hopefully I’ll be able to write faster now :P
> 
> **Advisory: this chapter contains discussion of eating disorders.**

“Good news,” says Lance. “I talked to Miriam today. You know – the woman from the Department of Mysteries who might be able to help you get back to your own universe.”

“And…?” I prompt.

“Well, she was kind of sceptical, of course. I’m not sure if she believed me in the end. But she does want to talk with you, so that’s something, at least.”

“Oh. Well, that’s… that’s great. Thank you, Lance.” I release a deep breath I didn’t realise I was holding in. Even though my problems are no closer to being solved, I feel an immense weight lift off my shoulders, because finally I’m not alone; there is someone capable of fixing what I’ve done.

I try not to think about what will happen if it doesn’t work. It has to work.

I also try not to think about how I’ve had to rely on everyone else to fix my problems; I can’t stand doing this normally. In the end, it doesn’t leave me much else to think about.

“I told her you’d meet her for lunch tomorrow,” Lance informs me.

“Great!” I say. I have always wanted to see what the inside of the Department of Mysteries looks like, and I can’t wait.

But Lance seems to have read my mind. “Not in the Department, you know. At a café.”

“But—”

“You know most of our work is _classified_ , Lily. It means you can’t just drop in. The only people who aren’t employed there who are allowed to drop in are the astrophysicists, you know, the Muggles working with the Unspeakables.”

My jaw drops as I stare at him, indignant. “ _Muggles_ get to see the place and I can’t?”

Lance tuts. “Yes, Muggles. And they’re basically the smartest scientists in the world, who’ve spent ten extra years in school for stuff like this.”

That shuts me up. Sometimes I forget that Muggles are capable of being so brilliant. The separation between our two worlds, which still exists back home, kind of makes it so that magical folk think of Muggles as less competent, and right now is a good reminder of the fact that although maybe they’re incompetent at magic, in a battle of wits and science I’m sure a Muggle could demolish me. Especially an astrophysician… Astral fissionist? Merlin, I have no idea, because we really are sheltered at Hogwarts.

Regardless of the fact that I feel bad about my magical privileges and the stereotypes I’m used to, and the fact that I’m still not allowed in the Department of Mysteries, and the guilt that everyone else has to solve my problems (yes, I’m still thinking about that, even though I’m trying not to), I have a chance now. I’ll just meet with Miriam at the café and we’ll talk. And at least I’ve learnt a lot while I’ve been here. I kind of wonder how much it will change me, and if I’ll be a different person when I get back home. And how much will I be able to tell people about it – considering I wasn’t supposed to have done this at all and came here with classified stolen technology?

Perhaps I’m getting a bit ahead of myself – that’s always something I can worry about later. I have enough other things to worry about for now.

“…Lily?” Lance is watching me. If he said anything, I totally spaced out for it. Damn.

“Huh?”

“Does that plan work for you?”

“Of course. And… thank you for setting it all up. I really appreciate it.”

*

So the next day, I meet Miriam Zhou; I arrive at the designated café before she does, and wait less than two minutes until she shows up, dressed in a smart Muggle jacket and red pinstriped trousers, with her greying black hair up in a clip. “You must be Lily,” she says as she sees me waiting there, and holds out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Miriam. Lovely to meet you.”

By the time we’ve made our introductions and have exhausted the small talk, we’re seated at a little round table under an awning just outside the café, with gourmet sandwiches on plates in front of us. It seems weird to meet in such a public venue to talk about secret things like this, but I do recall Aunt Hermione saying once that if you ever want to have a meeting where you won’t be overheard, then meet in a busy place with ambient background noise rather than a quiet one where people are sure to notice you.

“So,” says Miriam, removing the fancy toothpick from her sandwich, “I understand you’ve come from a parallel universe.”

File that statement under the heading of _Most Abnormal Conversation Starter I’ve Ever Heard._ I wonder what would happen if I use it on someone as a pick-up line someday. “Yes,” I confirm. “You believe me?”

“I can’t say I personally have ever had any contact with someone from a parallel universe before, so this is a first for me, but I’d like to believe you. I have seen evidence that such universes exist, after all. How exactly did you end up here? Lance was a bit foggy on the details.”

So then I tell her everything that happened to result in my landing in this universe, and give her a summary of the many differences between her universe and mine - at least those which I’ve noticed so far, but it’s quite likely there could be many more I don’t know about. She is, obviously, quite stunned when I mention that she is generally credited as one of the discoverers of time travel in my universe.

“How does it _work?_ ” she enthuses. “I spent most of my career studying time and magic, and never really found any satisfactory answers. What enables a person to experience time in a different direction or skip to a different point? To what extent can it be controlled? What are its limits?”

Really, she should be meeting the version of herself from my universe. I think she’d get more out of that conversation, rather than the one-word answers and clueless shrugs she receives from me.

So we sit there and chat about the great mysteries of space and time. I bring up Lance’s theory of multiverses sparked by each decision. She discusses the fluidity of time and how two universes in similar time streams can connect, by chance, sort of like how it would theoretically be possible to jump from one moving train to another if they were on adjacent tracks and moving at similar speeds. I nod intelligently as if this all makes sense to me. Well, the bit about trains makes sense. But I still have trouble wrapping my head around the enormity of time and space and how they interconnect.

“I would love to learn more from you about how to actually build a time travel device,” says Miriam. “Maybe that’ll be my last big project before I retire. As for you, you have a decision to make, and I can’t promise it will be an easy one.”

A vague feeling of dread looms over me. Of course it couldn’t be easy, when we’re making small talk of the biggest mysteries in the universe. (The multiverse, I should say.)

“Okay…” I say tentatively.

“I assume you’ve heard a bit about the ongoing studies on Balthazar?”

“That planet where a bunch of spooky stuff was happening to scientists?”

“Yes, that much was in the news, but there was more going on which has remained out of the media. There’s a portal near the base which we believe links to other universes - like the jumping point for the trains we were talking about - and that may be the closest thing I can think of for your way back.”

“In space,” I reaffirm blankly. “On another planet. That’s my way back?”

“Deep in the basement of the Department of Mysteries,” says Miriam, “a spaceship is being built, and in fact is quite near completion. They’re just running some final tests on it, but this ship is headed to the base on Balthazar.”

“Wait, you mean I’d be travelling on a spaceship?” I clarify, awed, as I’m still not certain I’ve heard correctly. “A _spaceship!_ ”

She smiles briefly at my enthusiasm, then her expression is back to business. “I don’t want to sugar-coat this for you, Lily, as this plan involves many uncertainties and risks, and may be quite dangerous. There have been a few peculiar incidents at the base - you’ve seen in the news, no doubt. It’s all true. Something is alive there.”

I sit there silently, playing with the toothpick from my long-gone sandwich, and Miriam continues. “Only three people have used the portal during the most recent expedition - encountering ghosts, mirror images of themselves, and only two returned,” she adds. “Indira Agrawal’s death was reported as a tragic accident, but she disappeared somewhere on the other side of the portal. We haven’t figured out how to control the direction of the portal yet. The group heading out there in two weeks is primarily a recon mission, looking for some answers.”

“So… let me get this right,” I say, attempting to find footing amidst all of this new information. “There might be a way for me to return home, but it’s on another planet, and it’s a dangerous place and people have died using the portal because no one knows yet how it works. And my alternative is to stay here forever, or at least until something else is invented, like the cube that got me here.”

Miriam hesitates, then nods. “Essentially, yes.”

I sit there for a few moments, wondering, thinking, disbelieving. “I’ll need some time to think about it,” I finally tell her.

‘You have two weeks until the ship leaves,” Miriam reminds me. “And, by the way, you understand everything we discussed here is classified, and if you try to mention it to anyone, you won’t be able to.”

I nod mutely. I have two weeks to decide whether to risk my life on this wild space mission, in which I may die and/or witness undiscovered mysteries of the universe, or to stay here for an indeterminate amount of time, forever wishing I had my old life and friends back, always stuck on what used to be, or what could have been. And I can’t go to anyone for advice.

It’s a hell of a decision to be faced with.

*

Marta is out on her smoke break when I meander by her workplace again that evening, and she eyes me warily when I walk up. And I warily eye the establishment behind her. It’s all very weird, considering if this were the _real_ Marta, she’d be enthusiastically greeting me and trying to convince me to go along with her to do whatever odd, questionably moral activity she’d dreamed up for the day.

Well, I guess her sense of morals is pretty much the same between universes. It’s just her demeanour that’s changed. “You again,” she says, frowning slightly.

“Yep… me,” I say awkwardly, holding my hands together behind my back and rocking on my heels, then I become aware of how uncomfortable this looks and subsequently stand still and let my arms dangle at my sides. Marta just continues to stare, and exhales a puff of smoke.

“So er… how’s your evening going?” I ask her, in an attempt to make conversation.

Her frown deepens. “Why the fuck are you trying to become friends with me? What do you want from me? I don’t even know who you are.”

Marta said last time that we didn’t know each other at Hogwarts, so I try a slightly different tactic. “I think we had a mutual friend at Hogwarts. Do you know Iris Henley?”

She glances out into the street, and then back at me. “I heard of her,” says Marta with a shrug. “The girl who dropped out of Hogwarts, right?”

Dropped out of Hogwarts? That sounds like the opposite of Iris, who is the most studious and driven person I’ve ever known, and lives her life by meticulous schedules.

“Did she?” I ask. “I mean the red-haired Iris Henley. A Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, pretty sure there was only one Iris Henley. She dropped out when she got really ill because of her eating disorder. You must be a shit friend if you don’t even remember that. I’ve got to go, and I don’t have time for your shitty friendship.” And with that, she drops her cigarette on the pavement and crushes it under the pointy heel of her black shoe, then without another word disappears inside the doors of the club.

It’s unnerving to see her littering, because the Marta I know never wastes anything – after all, she collects her dishes from rubbish bins, and recycles old cutlery into art. Granted, I’ve never seen her repurpose a cigarette filter, but she was always so passionate about finding uses for things and creating something new out of everything. This Marta doesn’t seem passionate about anything.

As if it wasn’t hard enough to see Marta in this way, I’m stuck standing there and thinking over what she said about Iris. Maybe in this world, where I don’t exist, Marta and Iris never became close enough to perceive each other’s struggles, with disastrous consequences for both of them. Because despite using me for my fame in the beginning, and then needing a lot of guidance herself and benefitting from Iris’ motherly ways, Marta was an indispensable friend, and her tough love was perhaps the only reason Iris’ eating disorder didn’t end up any worse than it was.

*

_Marta sat down next to us at the Gryffindor table and piled a mountain of mashed potatoes on her plate. Iris scowled at the plate as if it had personally offended her, and then she returned to sliding the peas around her own plate with her fork, and picking at her small, primly cut sandwich._

_When Marta went for seconds (by which point Iris had still eaten nothing), Iris said lightly, “I don’t understand how you can eat so much and stay so thin.”_

_“Fashtmetaplishm,” said Marta through a mouthful of peas, and Iris’ frown deepened. Marta swallowed and said, “You actually going to eat your lunch today? That’s like two bites, and moving it around won’t make it disappear.”_

_Iris blushed. “I’m just not really that hungry right now.”_

_“Or ever,” said Marta. “It’s not healthy to skip all your meals.”_

_I was a bit surprised to hear Marta bringing this up, as she rarely ever noticed anything that didn’t directly relate to herself. And I had started this topic with Iris before, but without positive result; I looked up apprehensively. Iris’ cheeks flushed a deeper red._

_“What do_ you _know about healthy?” asked Iris shortly. “Smoking is not healthy, nor is your habit of running away from your adoptive homes and getting into petty crime. Don’t worry about me, I’ve got everything under control. I’m only worried about you.”_

_“My smoking is totally irrelevant,” said Marta, unfazed. “Eat your fucking sandwich.”_

_“I’m not hungry!” Iris insisted. “Stop telling me what to do!”_

_Marta leaned forwards into the table. “I know what you’re doing, you’re not fooling anyone. Stop trying to starve yourself.”_

_Iris said nothing, but her big green eyes began to fill with tears, and she let her fork clatter to the table. I finally interjected. “Marta, you’re so tactless. You can’t talk like that, that’s harsh,” I said._

_“Well she needs to hear it,” said Marta, lifting another spoonful of peas to her mouth._

_Iris only sat there crying mutely, until I wrapped an arm around her and we walked out of the Great Hall and over to an empty classroom. Marta followed us eventually._

_“She’s right,” Iris told me tearfully. “I am out of control. I need to feel hungry, it feels like success to me, just being able to control something. And it’s not healthy. But…” she broke off again for another sob before continuing. “I’ve been in love with Julian Thomas for a year, but I’m sure he’d never look twice at a cow like me! I just want to look like someone he could like before I tell him that I love him.”_

_“Be yourself. Fuck what blokes think,” said Marta unhelpfully, though I saw a certain wisdom in it under all the sharp edges._

_I looked back at Iris. “I think what Marta is trying to say is that you’ll be happier if you focus on you, and what makes you happy, not just doing things because of what boys might think of you. And besides, Julian isn’t shallow – he’s definitely the sort of person who would appreciate how generous and compassionate and brave you are, and if he doesn’t see that you’re beautiful as you are, then he’s not worth it.”_

_Iris wrapped me in a hug and sobbed onto my shoulder, and Marta turned to face me. “Lily, you could make a living writing sappy greeting cards,” she said._

_This elicited a watery laugh from Iris, who was usually the one making the sappy, sentimental remarks and must have found it a relief that I was the subject of Marta’s joke this time instead._

_Marta remained standing a few feet away from Iris and me, as if her direct nature at odds with Iris’s and my affectionateness prevented her from joining in on our hugs-and-tears-fest. “I know I’m a rubbish friend,” said Marta, her hands shoved into her pockets, “but I do care and I want to help, if there’s, er, anything I can do.”_

_“You’re not a bad friend,” said Iris. “You were mean, but you made me open my eyes and I needed that.” Iris released me and then hugged Marta as well, while Marta then struggled to extract her hands from her pockets with Iris’ tight hug pinning her arms in place. “Thank you two for being my best friends,” said Iris. “I’m so lucky. You’re both such amazing people.”_

_“Good try, but Lily still sounded more like a greeting card,” said Marta, and Iris and I laughed._

*

Merlin, I miss them. I just want to go back to how it was, when I had my best friends and we helped each other through life’s challenges in the best way we could. Here, I feel like nothing but a ghost. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take Lance out to lunch to show my appreciation for everything he’s done for a stranger who barged into his flat. And then… maybe I’ll go with the dangerous, unknown route home via space, because I can’t stick around in this place which appears so similar to home, but feels so empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Thoughts? I always love to hear what you think in reviews!**
> 
> **P.S. Tangent, but sort of related: (Discussing the recent Star Wars film, but no real spoilers ahead) To those of you who have seen The Force Awakens, was anyone else as happy as I was that there was a female lead in a sci-fi movie and that she was totally awesome? Writing this sci-fi with a female lead constantly reminds me of how rare that is and I’m just thrilled to see it finally HAPPENING and with such a big movie. Hurrah!**
> 
> **Last but not least, regarding this chapter, eating disorders can be a sensitive topic and should be handled with care if you know someone with an eating disorder. Marta is not meant to be a role model here with her blunt insensitivity, but she's there for support, and support is the most important thing.**


	9. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I buy lettuce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who nominated and/or voted for _Icarus_ in the Keckers this year at HPFF - I’m still stunned that this won for Most Original - it’s such an honour and I can’t thank you enough!! ♥ Love to all of you!

Aside from meeting my grandparents, and seeing science fiction come to life in the form of actual spaceships floating in the sky, this world has mostly been a bit of a disappointment. Because after two weeks of being here, still nothing has become familiar, except maybe Lance – but even he’s not the same because he never knew Marta or Iris here, and is a different person, as much as I try to see the Lance I remember. And so it’s been very hard to adjust; I feel like I can’t get comfortable at all because part of me keeps saying it’s not real. I’m no-one here, and it’s very lonely. I even miss getting the random, useless owls from James informing me that I am short. (I’m not short – he’s just really tall.)

It’s the end of May now, and I’m still living on the sofa in Lance’s flat. Yesterday he said I was a rubbish houseguest, which made me smile, because it means he feels comfortable enough around me to say so; it means that we’re friends. I’ll be sorry to leave him, even though I’ll be seeing my old friend Lance on the other side. And… I’ll have to explain to him that I used stolen technology from his office and that’s why I’ve been gone for three months (which is what it will have been by the time we all get to Balthazar, according to Miriam – assuming time moves at the same rate here). In all honesty, I’m not entirely looking forward to seeing him again after all that; things are, for the moment, easier with Alternate-Lance.

But my time in this universe is approaching its end. Later this week I’m going to visit the spaceship I’ll be travelling on (there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say), and meet the captain and crew. Oddly, I can’t say I’m that thrilled about the voyage. There’s so much uncertainty involved - not only in how the portal works, but I also will have missed so much by the time I get back, three whole months from now. People are probably worried about me already. Not to mention, I know I’ve missed my job interview as well. And I had worked so hard on that application.

Today has been a remarkably uninteresting day so far, however. All I did this morning was rearrange Lance’s bookshelf, and now I’m at Tesco, buying peppers. A highly enviable life I lead, I’m aware.

Or at least it started out as a boring day, but suddenly I see a familiar face, standing over by the lettuce. It’s Lily, my almost-grandmother. Conveniently, I also need produce, so I head over to that aisle and greet her; it takes a moment for her to place where she’s seen me before, and I have to remind her, but recognition soon dawns in those green eyes and she smiles.

“Hyacinth,” she says. “How nice to see you again! Are you all healed up now after being hit by that car?”

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” I assure her. “And er, how was your lunch gathering with your friends?”

“Oh, just lovely. It’s very nice to be able to gather all your school friends together every now and then. It can be hard to do that as you get older, with everyone moving away and having busy lives. But now that we’re all getting old we don’t do much else, at least not like we used to do.” She laughs, then looks down at the head of lettuce in her wrinkled hand, frowns at it, and switches it out for a different lettuce. “And you’re still enjoying England?”

“Of course!”

She smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. Oh, I should tell you about some places to go! Do you like book shops or museums?” And suddenly I can’t do this small talk anymore, or the lies. I’m about to leave this universe, and after all that’s happened, I feel I have to tell her the truth. Just to make this all worth it. Otherwise what was the point?

“There’s something I didn’t tell you before,” I say hurriedly. If I don’t say it now, I never will.

“Oh?” she asks, squinting at her grocery list.

“This will sound weird, but after what you told me about that’s going on in space, maybe this’ll be at least a little bit believable… I’m from a parallel universe.”

I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but I certainly didn’t expect her to just nod placidly and say “Oh, that’s very exciting.” She picks up and inspects an onion.

How illegal is it for me to go spouting this information to people that I meet at Tesco? (Well, I guess it’s not illegal, but certainly ill-advised.) However, I’ll be gone next week. So I just continue speaking. “A universe in which I’m your granddaughter. I came here to meet you and James.”

“You’re… my granddaughter?” she clarifies, confused. “But how is that possible?”

I don’t even understand parallel universes myself, so it’s a bit of a challenge to figure out how to explain this to her. “Well, I am, but I’m not.” (So far, not starting out very well in my explanation. I should never have done this.) “There are other whole universes out there, some of which are the same as this one, except for tiny differences that make big changes. Where I came from, Lily and James Potter had a son called Harry. Harry’s my dad, but I never met my grandparents. And… and my real name isn’t Hyacinth Ludwig, it’s Lily Potter. I was named after you.”

“This sounds like the plot for a bad science fiction novel,” she states. She’s still frozen with an onion in her hand. “Why are you named after me?”

“Er, you were… you were a war hero. The difference between your world and mine is that there was a war, and a Dark Lord who was trying to put all the power in the hands of purebloods.”

She’s still kind of at a loss for what to say, and I can’t blame her. But when she finally does ask me something, it’s not about what my world is like, or the sorts of technical, scientific questions Lance and Miriam favoured. Instead, she asks, “How did you get here?”

“Some technology that existed back home but doesn’t exist here,” I say, “I’m going back with the crew of the ship that’s headed to Balthazar next week.”

And it’s this that produces the biggest reaction from her. Her eyes widen, and her arm reaches out and clasps my shoulder. “Hyacinth, dear, you shouldn’t. You heard what my old friend Melanie said about that place. It’s dangerous. There’s something _alive_ on that planet.”

Honestly, her fretting over me makes me feel worse than anything. Not because the way back is dangerous – I knew as much from Miriam. But I’ve just made my grandmother worry about me, and that’s what I feel guilty about. Besides, she’s not even my real grandmother. She has other grandchildren to worry about.

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them: “I’m sorry. Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

I have no basis with which to claim I’ll be ‘fine’, and I’m sure she knows it. But I had no idea she would react like this, that she’d care so much for someone who she’s only met twice and in her world isn’t actually related to her – and I don’t have any way to let her know if everything does turn out fine, meaning she’ll still be worrying. I wish I could take the words back so she could return to her worry-free day where the only thing troubling her was the brown spots on the lettuce. 

As if this hasn’t been enough, I suddenly notice someone hovering nearby, just inside the bread aisle. All I get is a glimpse of a thick brown coat before the figure disappears behind the shelf; someone was listening to me talk to Lily, and then they dashed off when they saw that I’d spotted them. I wonder how much they heard. Part of me wants to chase this person and make them swear to never tell, but… what are the chances they really believed me? Besides, I can’t just dash away and leave my grandmother to worry about me and then never see me again.

I miss the way I felt an hour ago, when this was still a boring day.

“Have you considered staying here until our technology catches up to yours?” Lily asks.

I sigh. “Your technology is… well, miles ahead of ours. Just in different ways. We have no space travel, even if we do have inter-universe travel. It’s the only way, there’s—”

But suddenly I find that I can’t continue; I’d been about to tell Lily about the portal, but my tongue has stuck to the roof of my mouth. I should have guessed Miriam would do something like this to prevent me from sharing classified information.

“Please be safe,” Lily says during my confused silence. As if I have a choice concerning my safety. I nod quickly, and there’s another beat of quiet. Then Lily looks back towards the produce display.

“Oh dear, I forgot the lettuce!” she exclaims. “I was going to buy some lettuce.”

“You didn’t forget, it’s already in your trolley,” I remind her gently, pointing to the bag, and thankful that I am able to speak again now that I’m no longer trying to divulge government secrets.

“There it is, yes, thank you,” she says.

“Well,” I begin awkwardly, “I should be going, but I – I’ll never forget you. I can’t believe I met you, and just, thank you,” I gush. “For everything.”

Maybe it’s a bit too much. But I’ve wanted to meet her for my entire life, and last time I met her I kept all this inside, so now is my only chance.

There’s a bit longer of a goodbye, we hug, she wishes me luck, and then we part ways. I can’t help wondering if I am doing the right thing – if I should go on the ship, or if I should take my grandmother’s advice and stick around here until I know the technology is safe, however long that is.

Whoever was lurking in the bread aisle has long since disappeared, so I find my last few items at the supermarket, pay for everything (with Lance’s money – he’s right, I am a terrible houseguest, but I don’t have any of my own money here. I don’t even exist), and head back to Lance’s flat.

The rest of the day is boring again. I make lunch and accidentally burn it when I’m lost in thought about space travel and my odd farewell to someone who isn’t my grandmother but ought to be. I still don’t know if I’m making the right decision.

I rearrange Lance’s bookshelf again that afternoon because I decide I don’t like the way I did it the first time, and then I go for a walk later in the afternoon. Lance gets home at about five thirty in the evening, and by that point I’m reclining on his sofa, halfway through a film called _Man vs Roboshark_. There’s only one woman in the film for about three minutes, and all she does is go on a date with the titular Man. I think it’d be a great twist if she actually turns out to be the villain who’s operating the Roboshark.

“Lance, you have such rubbish taste in films,” I tell him by way of greeting as he closes the door to the flat.

He sets his bag on the table and peers over at the television. “Is that… are you watching the shark one? Wait till the end. You’ve got to see it. Trust me.”

“Let me guess: Man destroys Roboshark.”

“Nah, the shark is the best part! And remember Elena, the girl from the restaurant? She comes back. It’s badass.”

The film continues to play in the background; I ignore it and don’t bother to pause it. “So how was work?” I ask Lance. 

“Pretty good,” he says. “Miriam and I have started a time travel study project, inspired by what you told us about time travel being possible in your world. She was particularly chuffed to hear that she’d helped invent it, so she’s been an unstoppable force lately at work because she knows she can do it, if she already did somewhere else.”

I can understand this feeling of hers, as for the same reason I was pretty relentless trying to get Marta to like me in this universe at first. “Maybe I’ll go home and invent space travel,” I tell him. After all, my interview date has already passed and I wasn’t there, so inventing spaceships is obviously the next best option. And after living on one for months, I’ll know all there is to know about spaceships.

Lance smiles. “Best of luck,” he says. “I really do hope it goes well. The voyage, I mean.” He grabs a bag of dry rice from the cupboard in the kitchen and then turns back to face me. “You know, I saw your old friend hovering around the Ministry today,” he adds.

“Which friend?” I ask him. “You’re the only friend I have here.”

“The angry one who worked at that club near the Space Bar.”

“Marta?”

Lance shrugs, then turns his attention to measuring out a cup of water.

“But what would she be doing there?” I ask, baffled. Last I saw her, she made it so clear she never wanted to see either of us again.

“I have no idea,” says Lance. “She didn’t stick around for long, though. I think she saw that I noticed her.” Then he points back to the television. “See? Giant Roboshark is actually a submarine! And Elena is the commander!”

Okay, but it’s still a shitty film. I will never understand how Lance likes the films he does. But we leave it playing anyway as we start to cook dinner, just because.

*

The next morning, I return to the basement of the Ministry for another meeting with Miriam. It’s a short meeting, and basically consists of her handing me a hefty stack of papers and a biro and sending me on my merry way to a future full of paperwork. (It appears that, with the Wizarding and Muggle worlds interacting more, we’ve caught up with the times and are no longer using quills, a change that Muggles apparently made about two hundred years ago.) Because I’m literally not on record anywhere as having ever existed, I have loads of forms to fill out before my passage on the voyage can be officially confirmed.

My initial perusal of the forms suggests that the Ministry wants to know absolutely everything about me, some of which are facts I don’t even know about myself, such as my blood type, or Dad’s blood type, or the exact minute of the exact day that I was born. There’s also a packet of papers that seems to be the ultimate History of Magic test, which asks about all of the Ministers for Magic since about the 1800s, a complete timeline of the two Wars with Voldemort, and more. I assume this is the Ministry’s attempt to learn as much as they can from me before I’m gone, because I’m the sole representative of alternate universes. But it’s a lot to ask of me, and I can’t possibly remember all of it.

The pile of forms Miriam has handed me is sure to take several hours to complete, so she suggests I take them home and return the completed paperwork as soon as possible. With that, I depart, the file folder heavy in my hand. It’s only when I reach the entrance to the Department of Mysteries corridor that I halt. Right in front of me, half hidden in a shadowy corner, is Marta.

“Marta? What are you doing here?”

She smirks. “What happened to your absolutely unbearable friendliness?”

“I just, I’m really surprised to see you here,” I explain. “You know, in the top-secret basement of the Ministry of Magic. Were you looking for me?”

“You said you knew me,” says Marta. “And that you’re able to help me.”

I’m really torn; part of me wants to help her out in any way I can, because how horrible would I be to just leave her like this? But the other part of me doesn’t trust her at all, and suspects that Marta is only interested in the money that I said I have (which I don’t have). So I tell her the truth. 

“If this is about when I said my friend and I were rich, I lied.”

“I don’t care about your money,” she says. “Take me with you on that spaceship.”

“Erm, spaceship?” I ask, even though Marta will definitely see through my act. But it buys me a few seconds. “What spaceship?”

“You are the _worst_ fucking liar,” she scoffs. “I know about it, okay? You were stupid enough to go blabbering about it at Tesco – if you ever want to keep a secret, don’t tell everyone you meet at supermarkets. I know you’re leaving on a spaceship, and I want to go.”

“I—okay, so you heard. How could you possibly be prepared for something huge like going into space?”

“How are _you_ prepared?” she counters, and I don’t have a response. So I challenge her with another question.

“Why do you want to go?”

“I want to get out of this fucking shithole.”

“London’s the same where I’m from, you know.”

“But I’m not,” she says, and for the first time I see a hint of emotion in Marta’s eyes. “I have a better life there, you said so.”

And it’s working – I hesitate for a moment before continuing my excuses. “You already exist there, so it wouldn’t make sense for you to come along,” I insist. “I don’t want to mess things up any more than has already been done. Besides, this isn’t just an adventure, I’m trying to fix the problems I created. It’s dangerous.”

“So you’re just going to give up after trying for so long to win my friendship. You have it now – but don’t you care about me?”

Merlin, this girl is manipulative. It has crossed my mind before, but this is the point at which I really have to convince myself: This is not Marta. This is who Marta could have been, but the girl in front of me is not the girl I fell in love with. She looks like her, and is just as selfish as the girl I know, but she’s not her.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

There’s a beat of silence while my words sink in, but then she says coolly, “The government would be really interested to know there’s someone from a parallel universe here, I’m sure. That’s never happened before in human history, and there must be loads to learn from you. I could just let it slip to a few people, and they’d want to interview you, maybe do some scientific tests on you, and whoops, you’ve missed your flight.”

I narrow my eyes at her. She’s threatening me, and while there’s a high probability of no one believing her, the consequences would indeed be severe if her scenario plays out just as she suggested.

“No one will believe you,” I insist. “Please get out of my way, I’m leaving.”

“You know where to find me,” she says as I walk past.

How did this all get so complicated?


	10. Daedalus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone makes a sandwich, but no one eats it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my stellar and supportive JulNo mums: victoria_anne, Diogenissa, and MegGonagall. Much love to you three. ♥

After two entire days of filling out forms with the most ridiculously specific information, I’ve reached the point where my hand now has a callus on it from the biro. I feel like I’ve just written an entire novel. But the paperwork is complete!

I’ve also had two days to think about Marta’s request… or threat. I’m not sure what to make of it. For a whole day I kept it to myself while I wondered and deliberated, but yesterday evening I finally told Lance about Marta’s and my conversation, seeking his advice. While Marta’s threats certainly worry him, I think he’s mostly just annoyed that I have now told so many people my story. There’s already going to be news articles about the spaceship, of course, when it takes off, but Lance agrees with Marta in that the news would simply love to know there’s a girl from a parallel universe who’s going on the ship too. I was supposed to stay under the radar, but now my anonymity lies in the hands of a vengeful Marta.

In the meantime I’ve been keeping an eagle eye on the news, just in case Marta intends to follow through with her plan. There are loads of articles about the upcoming space mission and the ship, as it’s due to depart in only a few days, and both the _Daily Prophet_ and the _Daily Mail_ have similar stories touting the combined Muggle and magical crew, the importance of understanding other planets and the life suspected to exist on Balthazar, and so on. No mentions of me.

So now it’s Thursday; I’ve returned my paperwork, and the rest of the crew is here at the Ministry too, apparently at this moment moving their belongings into the spaceship and doing last-minute preparations. Miriam sets my file folder on her desk, and then walks me down to another level, deep beneath the Department of Mysteries, where the spaceship is currently housed.

We travel down a staircase that has all sorts of twists and turns in it; left, right, up, down, I’m fairly sure it defies the laws of gravity and at one point what used to be the ceiling is now the surface below our feet, but it seems anything is possible here. When we reach the end, we’re faced with an enormous set of iron doors. Miriam points her wand at it – no doubt a nonverbal spell that’s not intended for my ears – and slowly the heavy doors groan as they slide away to the sides to admit us through.

A cavernous, stone-walled room greets my eyes. Nothing like the fine marble hallways of upstairs in the Ministry, this place was never designed to be seen by anyone aside from those who work here. And in the centre of the room, a towering spectacle of metal shaped like a lopsided cylinder, slightly narrower on one end, and with a raised part with windows on the other end. Up on the scaffolding surrounding the ship are a few helmeted people casting synchronised spells on the hull that emit a sort of blue lightning. In one of the far corners of the room I can see the fiery, metallic light of someone welding, and the staticky sizzling sound rises above the low din of voices throughout the room. Two other people in paint-splattered coveralls cross in front of me carrying a large box. No one pays Miriam or me any attention.

“Well, there it is,” Miriam says unnecessarily, gesturing to the massive spaceship. “Let’s go talk to Rohit and see if you can go on board now to meet Captain Cassidy.”

She marches me off to the left where a man is seated in a chair overseeing the whole process, a book of diagrams open on his lap. He looks up when Miriam and I approach.

“Morning, Miriam,” he says. “This must be Lily?”

“Yes,” says Miriam.

“Great.” He then turns to me and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Rohit Bhagati. I am leading this project. Miriam has told me all about you.”

I shake his hand, wondering whether I’m supposed to introduce myself or not – propriety tells me I should, but he clearly already knows my name. So I just smile, and then feel awkward because so far in this conversation I’ve been entirely mute.

“Most of the crew were able to be here today, not everyone. But it does mean a lot fewer names to learn at one time.” He grins.

The sound of shoes clicking grows steadily nearer, and then someone clears their throat right behind me. Rohit and I both turn to face the source of the sound: a relatively short young woman with dark brown skin and dreadlocks, her black shirt crisply ironed and her expression serious.

“Simulations are complete,” she announces.

“Thank you. Perfect timing, as well – Celeste, this is Lily Potter. Lily, your captain: Celeste Cassidy.”

I look back at the girl. The captain. The first thing that stands out to me about the captain is how young she is; she appears to be only a few years older than I am. She gives me a firm but brief handshake.

“Yes, I was expecting you,” she says to me. “Follow me, I’ll take you aboard for a quick tour. Rohit, I’ll drop by afterwards to discuss something with you.”

I look back at Miriam, who has turned around and is headed back to the large iron doors, and Rohit is absorbed in his diagrams again.

“Haven’t got all day,” the captain reminds me, and I spin back around and follow her up the metal ramp. I can’t keep from staring around fascinated by everything as we go, particularly just the enormity of the ship; every step we take that brings us closer to it just reinforces its magnitude. When we reach the open hatch into the ship itself, Captain Cassidy turns to face me again, and a hint of a smile twists her lips.

“I was like that once, too,” she says. “First sight of a ship up close. Does it look anything like what you expected?”

I close my mouth, as I realise she’s noticed my blatant gawking – but she did ask me a question, so I shake my head. “We don’t have any spaceships where I’m from.”

She nods. “All right. Welcome aboard the _Daedalus_ ,” and steps aside, gesturing with her arm for me to pass her and walk through the threshold.

The hatch leads into a dim hallway, where there’s an intersection just a few feet in front of us: we can go left, right, or straight up a set of stairs.

“Left,” she says. “We’ll start all the way forward and work our way aft.”

We thread our way through a narrow hallway framed by thick steel walls. I seem to have a tendency to drag my fingers along the wall, each step reminding me that yes, this is really happening. Even after three weeks of living in a parallel universe, I’m still not prepared for stepping aboard a real spaceship. I may not have been much looking forward to it earlier, just because of the uncertainty that awaits me at the other end of the voyage, but it’s hard to be apathetic when it’s all _here_ : technology and exploration and space travel, right at my fingertips.

We approach a low doorway, framed on the left by a massive, heavy door that has a thin, wheel-like handle in the centre. “These doors have air-tight seals,” Celeste explains as she walks through, stepping over the frame at the bottom; I have to duck under the top of the doorway as well. “For emergencies, we can seal off specific compartments if need be.”

On the other side of the door, the hallway ends in a brightly lit room lined with cabinets and drawers. There are two microscopes out on the island table in the centre of the room, surrounded by some crates of rocks, as well as a number of other instruments which I don’t know the names of, having little prior exposure to Muggle science. It looks like a lot of things run on electricity. Albus and Granddad Arthur would be thrilled to see all the different types of plugs.

“As you see, this is our shipboard laboratory. This area of the ship won’t be used that frequently until we’re actually arrived on Balthazar, so you may not see a lot of activity here while you’re with us.”

We turn around and head back down the same walkway, and Celeste points out a few doors that lead to sleeping quarters or to the toilets, until we reach the same intersection by the door where we came in. This time, we head left up the stairs.

At the top, we walk through another door into a vast room full of screens and buttons and controls, most of which are on a centre console. There’s a series of joined windows on the far wall, which look out over the front of the ship and at the concrete wall beyond. Inside the room, a middle-aged man is sitting in front of a screen, wearing a pair of headphones, and he looks up as Celeste and I walk in.

“That’s Guillermo, the first mate,” says Celeste. Guillermo waves at us, but is otherwise occupied with whatever technical thing he’s doing. “He’s running secondary simulations. He’s a Muggle, with loads of experience in the aerospace industry.”

“Are there a lot of Muggles on the crew?” I ask.

“It’s about half and half. Much of the flight technology relies on magic, but there’s some technological and scientific components as well. We all have our strengths. Anyway, this is the control room. I practically live in here, and you’ll often see Guillermo here as well – and Janice, the second mate.”

“Erm, Captain Cassidy?”

“Just Celeste is fine,” she says. “We’ve no need to be that formal here; we aren’t Aurors or the Royal Air Force.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, how do you have computers and microscopes and all this Muggle technology around on a magical spaceship that’s also full of wizards?

She frowns at me for a second; it doesn’t look like an expression of irritation, more of puzzlement. “Well, that sort of thing hasn’t been an issue for ten years at least. Muggles and magical folk have been working together to adapt technology into a magical environment, and vice versa.”

“Oh. That must be because of your world not having a Statute of Secrecy,” I realise, and then consider the ramifications of magic and technology coevolving. “Does that mean that the magic I use won’t work here on the ship?”

“I think you’ll be fine. Just, well, don’t try any experimental spells while you’re standing in front of expensive equipment.” She grins, a flash of bright white teeth. “Now through this other door…” Celeste steps out and descends another set of steps, and I pause for a moment to read a placard on the wall by the door.

 _EMERGENCY STATION BILL_ , it reads at the top, followed by a list of crew names and roles aboard the ship, and their various duties in four given categories of potential onboard emergencies: _HULL BREACH, FIRE, SYSTEMS FAILURE,_ and _ABANDON SHIP_.

I hurry down the steps after Celeste, and we move farther towards the back of the ship (or “aft”, as Celeste calls it), into another narrow corridor. Two people are approaching us from the other direction: a pale, blond-haired bloke with glasses that look a lot like mine, and a woman wearing grease-splattered brown coveralls and a green hijab, and carrying a clipboard.

“Hey, Cap,” says the bloke. “I’m off to get more gauze wraps.”

Celeste stops, and her eyebrows twitch, but otherwise she remains calm. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Just noticed on the checklist that we didn’t have enough. Who’s this? Is this Lily?”

“All right. And yes, this is Lily, our passenger to Balthazar. Lily, this is Patrick, our medic, and Fatima, our engineer.”

“Nice to meet both of you,” I say.

Fatima smiles, and Patrick asks, “Looking forward to the voyage?”

What a question. To be honest, I have a lot of feelings about the upcoming voyage. I’m excited about the fact that I’ll be soaring through space towards another planet that’s light-years away, on a spaceship that moves faster than light due to magic and wormholes or something else very scientific that Miriam mentioned in one of my meetings with her. I’m curious because I have no idea what space is like, except… probably cold? And part of me is terrified because I haven’t felt comfortable and at home for over a month, and I am only just now starting to get used to this universe and I’m about to uproot my life again and leave my only friend, and it may not even work in the end and I might die. More than anything else, I just want to be _home_. With each day that passes, I have a different feeling towards my upcoming voyage.

But all I say out loud is, “Yeah, of course. Have either of you been in space before?”

“No,” says Patrick, and Fatima adds in a soft voice, “I have. But it wasn’t this long of a voyage.”

“Where did you go?” I ask.

“Just Mars.”

 _Just?_ “What was it like?”

“You’ll have plenty of time to chat during the voyage,” Celeste reminds us gently. “We’re on a bit of a schedule, Lily, if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry.” We bid farewell to Patrick and Fatima and continue aft, passing a few closed doors coming off, again, some of which lead to sleeping quarters, and others leading to the loo (on board, they call it the head), and one door leading into a sort of makeshift gym – we look in to see a variety of exercise equipment including a treadmill, a couple of benches and several sets of barbells and weights, and foam mats.

“We create artificial gravity on the ship,” Celeste explains, “but it’s a lot lower than here on Earth, so we have to actively keep our strength up.”

Eventually the hallway widens into a kitchen and dining area with several tables (or: the galley. I’m picking up so much spaceship lingo). Someone is organising spices in a cabinet, and turns to face us as we approach; the person has shoulder-length black hair, and is dressed in a rather unprofessional ensemble of neon-yellow skinny jeans and a black Augureys T-shirt.

“Celeste! Just the person I wanted to see.” The voice is deeper than I expected, and I’m not really sure whether the person is a he or she.

“Hey, Alex,” says Celeste. “You can meet our new crew member too – I’m giving Lily a tour right now. This is Lily.”

Alex reaches out a hand, which I shake. “Hi Lily, great to meet you, I’m Alex. And, just so you know, I prefer the pronouns they and them, rather than he or she.”

I nod. “Okay.” The pronouns are not entirely unfamiliar to me. If I recall correctly, there was an agender Gryffindor at Hogwarts several years ahead of me. (And in fact, that person may have actually been Alex.)

“Thanks,” says Alex. “You don’t have any food allergies, do you? If so, I want to make sure I get that noted before we depart.”

“I’m mildly allergic to kiwifruit, but nothing else.”

“Noted,” says Alex, grabbing a biro off the worktop and adding to a list. “And Celeste: good news, I’ve finished the final galley tests. Oh, and I made this sandwich here if anyone wants it.” They point to an object wrapped in aluminium foil on the worktop. “Tours of spaceships can make you hungry.”

“All yours, Lily,” Celeste says, gesturing to it. “Alex is a great cook, as I’m sure you’ll discover.”

I pick up the sandwich, and Celeste shepherds me farther down the corridor.

“Thanks for the sandwich,” I call back towards Alex. “It was nice to meet you!”

“You too. Enjoy the sandwich!”

“Alex and I went to Hogwarts together,” says Celeste. “Sometimes I can’t believe they used to be _shy_. Now I can never get them to shut up.”

As we keep walking, I start planning ahead; how many ways are there to convey the sentiment of _it’s nice to meet you_? Because at this point I’ve begun to sound like a robot around everyone I’ve met today. Instead, I could say: _I’m honoured_ , but only if the person is really important. _It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance_ , if I want to sound like I’m from the 1800s. Then there’s the classic yet lazy, _Cool_.

We’ve arrived at the engine room while I was lost in thought, and since I’ve already met Fatima elsewhere on the ship, the room is empty of people when we walk in. In the middle of the room is the engine, which seems to be massive, although I can’t fully see it because it’s surrounded on all sides by tall perforated metal grates, the round holes in its sides about the size of Sickles.

“You won’t have much reason to come back here mostly, because this whole room is just the engines and controls for a lot of the systems, but it’s good to know where everything is. And if you ever need to find Fatima, you can often find her here. Or Eric, the assistant mechanic. Do you want to see the engine?”

I set my foil-wrapped sandwich on a worktop next to a spool of wire, and Celeste slides one of the metal grates surrounding the engine aside; I walk over to look in. The engine is off, but it looks like there’s an outer part that rotates, and some sort of gaseous chamber within.

“Looks a lot more impressive when it’s on,” Celeste acknowledges. “You’ll have to stop in here for a bit during the voyage to see; that chamber lights up green, and over here,” she points off to our right, “there’s a variety of different colours in the spell cloud. The engine is partly powered by magic, partly through technology – it’s quite a cool thing to witness if you’re not used to that.”

I stare for a bit longer, but aside from looking at how big the engine is, there’s not much to see while it’s off, especially for someone like me who has no mechanical knowledge. Celeste shuts the grate again and I look around the room outside of the engine space; there are pipes going through the far wall, a big display of tools hanging on the pegboard near the door, and boxes lining the wall below it.

“That’s pretty much everything,” says Celeste. “This is the aftermost part of the ship. Er, the farthest back,” she amends, upon seeing my look of incomprehension. “You’ll get used to it pretty quickly, I expect.”

We walk back out of the engine room and down the hallway towards the corridor where I came in. “Any questions I can answer now?” Celeste asks. “Any pressing matters, or should we just see you in a couple of days when we depart?”

I suppose I have a lot of questions, after seeing so much today, but none that she can really answer (or that are very pertinent). I shake my head. “Thanks for the tour.”

“Of course, you’re very welcome. Right then, so we’ll see you at 0800 on Monday. We’re scheduled to leave at noon.”

“From here? Where are we taking off from?” I can’t help but imagine the ship rocketing out of the basement of the Ministry of Magic and incinerating the whole place. But where is there a facility for launching spaceships? Do they launch the same way as rockets in all the old photos I’ve seen with towers of flames following the rocket?

“From just outside. Our launch is more like a big feat of levitation than anything else – since we use more magic than Muggle technology in the engine, it’s a pretty clean launch.”

“Well, great, I’ll just, yeah, I’ll see you Monday then. Eight in the morning?”

“That’s right. Glad to have you on board.”

“Thanks for taking me as a passenger.”

And with my tour concluded, and Celeste having important captainly things to do, I head back up the gravity-defying staircase into the upper Department of Mysteries and visit Miriam’s office again to inquire if she has anything else for me today, and when she doesn’t, I set off again towards the surface.

With a touch of sadness, I realise when I step out of the Ministry building and back into open air that I’ve left my sandwich behind, somewhere in the engine room. Hopefully Fatima will find it and enjoy it, sooner rather than later.

So I continue my walk down the noisy street back home towards Lance’s house. But I haven’t walked very far down the street away from the Ministry building when someone grabs my arm from behind, and I whirl around, jerking my arm away from whoever grabbed it, only to find a microphone in my face and three people standing very close to me with clipboards, Quick-Quotes Quills, and cameras. A bright light flashes in my eyes and I blink dazedly at the reporters. Where did they all come from?

“The elusive Lily Potter,” says one man. “Found you at last! You’re the talk of the town today.”

Someone else adds, “The first person to visit Earth from another planet! How have you been living unnoticed under our very noses for so long?”

“I’m not from another planet,” I insist. “I’m from Earth. Go away.”

But more paparazzi have gathered on my other side. I’ve been ambushed. They’re closing in on me from all sides, and I can’t escape.

“What do you have to tell us about parallel universes?” asks one woman.

“Do you miss your family?”

“Do they still have Marmite in the parallel universe you came from?”

“How will you be transiting between universes on that spaceship?”

The irony has not escaped me that I’ve still ended up a celebrity in a world where I don’t even exist. I hold my arms up. “I’m not answering any of your questions. Let me go.”

“You won’t be doing that,” says another voice coming from a woman in sunglasses; she doesn’t have a camera or microphone, only a briefcase. “I’ve got orders to detain you.”

I stare at her. “Why? From whom?”

“You are not permitted to endanger the crew by joining them. You have knowledge of classified information about parallel universes and as such are required to remain here indefinitely.”

“That’s not fair!” I shout.

Quick-Quotes Quills around me are scribbling furiously onto notebooks in the hands of excited magical paparazzi, and Muggle reporters are holding microphones towards the woman now, to catch my invented misdeeds on record.

“Come with us.” A man nearby puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me after the woman with the sunglasses and out of the crowd of reporters.

An explanation makes itself clear as we walk away: Half-hidden behind a nearby tree trunk is Marta, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Notes:**
> 
> **1) Thanks to Pixileanin for the dare about mentioning a sandwich that no one eats. :P**
> 
> **2) The fact that the ship in this story is called Daedalus has nothing to do with the ship of the same name on the TV show Stargate SG-1. That was honestly a coincidence and has more to do with mythology of Daedalus as an inventor/craftsman. (I will say, though, that SG-1 was my favorite TV show as a teenager and I’m sure that it’s subconsciously influenced this story in many other ways, like the idea of parallel universes to begin with.)**
> 
> **3) And of course, many thanks to you for reading!**


	11. Takeoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I do a lot of Apparating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for BellaLestrange87 – thanks for the great conversation about feminism a few months ago, now it has manifested in fic!

  
_**THE DAILY PROPHET**  
Friday, 4th June 2032_

_**MINISTRY OF MAGIC HAS BEEN HIDING THE WORLD’S GREATEST SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY!**  
by Zacharias Smith_

_Two days ago, we all thought parallel universes were science fiction: an invention crafted by Muggle novelists and the film industry. But sources have leaked information to the contrary, and we now know: our universe is not the only one. Elsewhere, outside of our universe, there exists another one, with identical copies of you and me and every person, living out different lives._

_The reason we know this is because a person from an alternate universe has been living undocumented in London for the past three weeks, planning to escape aboard the spaceship_ Daedalus _upon its departure on Monday. There are no records of her existence here. If she were to have been successful at her plan of profiting from our space technology, we would have lost any chance we might have had at learning about what exists outside of our known universe. She could well be the key to answering some of science’s most important questions, and we are lucky enough to now have her in custody for questioning._

_The dark side to this whole story is that several workers in the Department of Mysteries clearly knew about and were assisting in the attempt to smuggle this criminal into space. We should hold our Ministry to much higher standards than their current shameful veiling of the truth._

_*_  


There’s a similar one in the _Daily Mail_. Everyone, magical and Muggle alike, is annoyed that I’ve been trying to sneak out of this universe without telling them all about mine. Sure, I can understand why people might be upset about me getting special privileges and unprecedented access to this new, high-tech spaceship. However, it’s also none of their business because this is my life we’re talking about, so they can all just piss off. But they won’t. I wasn’t even allowed to go home; last night I was kept in a room somewhere that gave me strong impressions of a gaol cell. I couldn’t help but wonder if Lance was worried about me.

After being whisked away from the Ministry and all the reporters surrounding it yesterday, I was Apparated into a gloomy room somewhere, with white, undecorated walls, several metal chairs, a table, and a row of filing cabinets. I didn’t know how far away it was from where I’d started, or whether we were underground or above ground, for the room had only one window, which looked out into another room. Several people gathered around me: the two who had arrived with me, and shortly several others, two of whom were wearing white lab coats. The whole atmosphere made me very uncomfortable, and I was reluctant when they invited me to sit down.

“I understand this all must be terribly confusing for you,” said the woman who had captured me from the Ministry. “I’m so sorry about that. We don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

It was with great effort that I refrained from snorting or laughing or anything after she said that, because they all were doing a terrible job if their goal wasn’t actually to make me uncomfortable. “Then let me go home,” I said.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that yet. I’m very sorry. I hope you will understand why we’re doing all of this – the fact that you exist here is simply amazing to us. We just want to understand the universe a little more, and then we’ll help you go on your way.”

But I was unmoved. They had done nothing to earn my trust. “Where am I?”

“A Ministry facility,” she said, but didn’t specify whether we were talking about the Ministry of Magic, or the Muggle Ministry.

“When are you letting me go?”

The woman frowned. “That depends on how long you insist on thwarting our progress. Dr Lee needs to ask you some questions.” A man in a white lab coat and holding a clipboard inclined his head toward me. “And Dr Henley has to run a few tests on you, starting with a blood sample.”

I turned my head sharply upon hearing the familiar surname, but still was entirely unprepared to see Iris herself, standing there in a green robe and holding a syringe. “Iris?” I exclaimed, and she stared back at me, bewildered. Of course she didn’t know me. But I still couldn’t wrap my mind around this. How had Iris gotten involved in whatever this was, rather than training as a Magi-Vet like she’d always wanted to? Besides, hadn’t Iris dropped out of Hogwarts in this universe? I suppose Marta could have been lying about that, but I actually don’t think she was that time. She had no reason to.

“We know each other in your universe?” Iris asked. Dr Lee made some notes.

“We were flatmates,” I said dully.

And I had to explain my whole history with Iris, while Dr Lee wrote it all down, occasionally punctuated by Iris doing something like jabbing me with a needle and taking my blood, or inspecting the interior of my ears. But Iris merely treated me as a patient, an incredible discovery that redefined science, and not as a person who was her best friend in another life. Eventually I was given some food, which was bland, but better than I expected, and then led to a room with a bed where I was expected to sleep. But I lay awake all night. I even tried escaping, but it wasn’t much of an event as there were anti-Apparition charms on the room, my wand was in their lab, and I had no way to pick the lock on the door. Wandless magic proved futile.

So now, the morning after all of that, I am even less inclined to cooperate with them. “I’m not a study specimen,” I protest when they all gather in the meeting room with me again. “I’m a person and I just want to go home, but by keeping me here, you’re keeping me away from the only means I have to return home. That ship leaves in three days.”

“Technology moves very fast, Ms Potter,” says Dr Lee. “Something more reliable may turn up in a year or so, with your help. You are aware, of course, that Balthazar’s study station is a bit… unstable?”

A _year?_ “It’s all I have,” I insist. “I am not waiting around here indefinitely until the right technology is invented. You won’t even know the technology is working properly until you’ve done years of study on it, anyway, and I don’t want to idle away my life just waiting. I can’t. I’ve already been missing from home for nearly a month.”

Besides, I trust Captain Celeste – even after only an hour or so of knowing her, I had the strong impression that she is a person with integrity. She was honest with me, and is the first real friend I’ve made in this universe (Lance doesn’t count, because I knew him from before and essentially told him to be my friend here). I can’t trust the people in this room with me, not even Iris, to my dismay. I know the situation on Balthazar may have its problems, but I’d rather be facing that with people I can trust than staying here with people who regard me as an experiment and a curiosity.

There’s nothing I can do but answer questions again. Iris and Dr Lee try to be friendly about it, but they’re still not being fair to me, keeping me here against my will. And for Merlin’s sake, I already answered half of these questions as part of the paperwork I gave to Miriam prior to visiting the _Daedalus_. So while these people pelt me with questions, I lie on some of the answers just because I’m annoyed that they’re keeping me here, and I have no reason to tell them anything truthful; I tell them, for instance, that where I come from, there are no dogs smaller than Saint Bernards, and the largest dog is the size of a bear. Eventually Dr Lee threatens me with Veritaserum, and I’m back to being sullen and submissive while they ask me about the differences I’ve seen in technology between my universe and this one, or what noticeable timeline changes have been affected by the removal of a dark wizard.

After they’re done for the day, Iris hangs back to ask more about herself in my world. The discussion is a lot less stressful than the one before, maybe because there’s just the two of us now, and because I can’t help but care about Iris no matter what, despite that my same sentimentality with Marta is what got me into this mess. 

Yesterday, when I told the group about my history with Iris, it was mainly about facts – when we met, when we got our flat, where she worked. But today, Iris asks more personal questions, maybe now that the whole panel isn’t around to hear it. She wants to know about Julian Thomas (apparently, her love for him extends across universes). And she wants to know what sort of a person I know her as, how happy she was with the life she was leading, and I oblige. And in exchange, I ask her about who she is here. It turns out she did drop out of Hogwarts, and worked hard to put her life back together afterwards. Her work ethic seems to be a universal constant as well.

It’s nice to talk with Iris again, but it’s still not everything I want from a conversation with her. This girl isn’t my best friend, she’s just someone my best friend could have become, and I miss the closeness and warmth that I have come to expect from Iris. All the same, when she laughs at a joke of mine, I feel that this Iris and I could just as easily have been friends, given time. She has the same inclination to befriend people. At any rate, Iris makes sure I get some nicer food this time around, and eventually she leaves and I’m back in the holding room. There’s a book on the bed for me – a mystery novel like the ones Iris and I love – but I can’t bring myself to be interested in it.

So, here it is Friday night, and somehow I have to get out of here and over to the Ministry by Monday morning. I try to brainstorm ideas of escape, but instead my mind drifts back to the conversation I just had with Iris, and then even further back to Iris at Hogwarts.

*

 _It was sometime in mid-February of our fourth year, around Iris’ fifteenth birthday, and Iris and I were queued up outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Unfortunately for me, the black-haired Ravenclaw girl who was always trying to take pictures of me and sell them to the_ Daily Prophet _ended up directly behind me in the corridor. I turned my back on her and grimaced at Iris._

_“Lost something?” Zalinski asked, tapping me on the shoulder. I hadn’t lost anything, as far as I knew, but I turned around to face her anyway, looking up at her easy smirk, her deep blue eyes thickly defined with eyeliner, and what was unmistakably my Defence textbook in her hand. It had been in my bag not five minutes ago, and how she got it out without my noticing was beyond me._

_But her other hand held a camera, and before I could respond, she snapped a picture of me. “Mm, you look mean in this one,” said Zalinski, watching the photo develop. “The_ Prophet _will love seeing the dark side to Lily Potter.”_

_The boy in front of Iris groaned upon hearing that. “Just what I wanted to hear about again: Lily Potter’s famous family.”_

_I frowned. By this point in my life I was used to attention, but I rarely ever got such disdainful reactions – people generally thought well of me and were nice, if occasionally trying to ingratiate themselves with me._

_“Shut up, Rowe,” said Zalinski in a bored voice._

_“Why do you do it?” I finally asked her. “What do you want from me?”_

_She shrugged. Iris reached out to take the picture from her, and Zalinski let her. “Aside from the fact that Lily looks like she wants to murder you, this is a good picture,” Iris said. “It’s an artistic angle. Do you take pictures of other things too?”_

_Zalinski raised her eyebrows, then watched Iris for a moment before answering. “Yeah. Art is my thing.”_

_It wasn’t that much of a stretch to assume, considering she’d drawn all over her right hand, her haircut was sharp and angular, and her left ear sported four mismatched earrings. She didn’t just_ like _art, she_ was _art. Even her name, Marta, was full of art. But at that point I didn’t like her enough to make a joke._

_“You should show us sometime,” said Iris, so genuinely that Marta grinned._

_“Sure,” said Marta. “Hey Lily, don’t you want your book?” I snatched it from her hand and put it into my bag, and then looked to Iris, who was smiling to herself in the way she always did whenever she’d just made a new friend._

_“Lily?” asked Marta from behind me again. “You forgot your wand.” She held it out for me, a cheeky grin on her face, as I wondered how she’d managed to spirit away my belongings yet again without my knowledge. As the queue finally went in to class, I slid my wand back inside my bag, deciding that I’d have to be careful around Marta Zalinski. Iris had no idea what she’d signed us up for by extending her customary olive branch._

_Marta’s friendship was unexpectedly wonderful, after she’d given up on trying to make money off of pictures of me and instead revelled in her position as one of my friends. Maybe in the beginning she started off purely selfish, but her wildly different personal philosophy changed Iris and me both: she destroyed my status as Hogwarts’ sweetheart, but brought me to realise that it didn’t matter._

_Some months later, I think in June that year, Iris and I overheard a discussion in the library. “It’s so funny to me,” one girl was saying. “Lily Potter suddenly hanging around with that dumb slut Zalinski.”_

_Iris and I locked eyes. Certainly I was aware of the reputation Marta had built for herself with the boys, but she was also one of the most intelligent people in our year, and more often than not she got Outstandings on her homework (when she put in the effort, at least)._

_“They shouldn’t call her that,” Iris whispered._

_One of the other girls at the table across the room laughed. “And the other one too. Henley. Who’d have thought, Hogwarts’ biggest prude, friends with Hogwarts’ easiest slut.”_

_Next to me, Iris drew in her breath sharply, and I lightly took hold of her arm in a show of support, knowing that the choice of words was doubly wounding to Iris. Neither of us wanted to go over there and be confrontational, but I hated hearing those labels slung around; it wasn’t fair. Where was the ‘acceptable’ ground for a girl between being a slut and a prude, and who decided what it was? No one judged blokes in the same way._

_“Take your fucking judgemental labels somewhere else,” said a new voice near the other table – Marta’s voice – and then the clicking of heels grew louder until Marta herself stood in front of Iris and me, and threw a pile of parchment and a bar of Honeydukes chocolate on the table, then sat down with us._

_“You stole that,” Iris ventured, pointing at the chocolate._

_“Not from Honeydukes, I didn’t,” said Marta, just as I heard someone exclaim from the table across the room. Marta grinned as she popped a piece of chocolate in her mouth, and Iris riffled through Marta’s parchment, which turned out to be mostly paintings. “Don’t even listen to them,” Marta added, glancing back at the other table. “Life’s too short to worry about people not liking you.”_

*

I wake up Saturday morning very poorly rested, and then it’s Friday all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Only the metaphor falls flat as I haven’t had the luxury of an actual shower since being brought here on Thursday evening. If nothing else, they’ll have to let me go because at a certain point I’ll smell too bad to keep around.

The monotony is only broken on Saturday night when I try once again to escape; I’ve had some time to plan it out over the past couple of days and nights. So I shove the mattress off my bed and start disassembling the cheap metal bed frame. Through stomping and twisting I manage to wrest off several of the wires that had held up the mattress. I twist the strands together, into a stronger unit, which I then bend into a hook at each end of the long, straight cable. Then, I stick one end of it out the crack under my door, feeding it out until I only have a few inches remaining on my side of the door, and spend at least half an hour manoeuvring it until I can feel the other end catch on the outside handle, pull gently, and the door finally opens. The first thing I hear afterwards is footsteps, and my heart sinks.

But it’s not any of the government workers. When the footsteps approach my door, I look up to see the last person I’d expect: it’s Marta. I don’t know how she got in to the facility, but she’s always been good at things like that. She tells me to be quiet and beckons me to follow her – she knows her way out. I don’t know whether to be thankful that she’s aiding my escape attempt, or furious that she got me in here in the first place, but I take the opportunity to escape, hoping she’s not leading me into another, worse trap. Or maybe, like the Marta I know, she still has a heart, despite her selfishness. Maybe she’s not that different from the Marta I left behind.

She leads me out of the building, stopping along the way in the room in which I’ve spent most of the past two days so I can reclaim my wand. Only once we’re outside do I finally release my frustration.

“What the hell was this all about, Marta? You told the press about me, those people weren’t going to let me leave, and you almost ruined everything. Why bother to help get me out after all that?”

“Take me with you,” she insists. “I know how much you want to go back home, and I want to go too. Please.”

“You’re already there,” I remind her. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

The hurt is so evident in her eyes, and I can feel myself beginning to break. I can’t look at her. It’s a lot easier to be angry at her when I don’t see Marta in front of me. Maybe she senses that – I don’t know how it happens – but the next thing I know she’s kissing me, and I’m entirely lost for a moment, in her arms, and it’s wonderful. Then I push her away roughly. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

“No,” I tell her hoarsely. I take a step back, and neither of us takes eyes off the other; her face radiates the betrayal, the disappointment, the loss that I feel. And then I’m gone; I Disapparate, and find myself on Lance’s doorstep, my right foot in considerable pain. Shaking, I kneel down and remove my trainer to find that my small toe is missing and my foot is bleeding, and I suppose I’m not surprised; my emotions were everywhere when I Apparated, and that regularly leads to Splinching.

A drop of water falls on my discarded trainer, another drop on my hand, and I reach up to touch my face, which is wet. Sobbing, I pound at the base of Lance’s door as I remain crumpled on the floor outside, my trainer beside me and my foot bleeding all over the welcome mat, until the door finally opens.

“Lily?” he breathes. “What’s – oh no – you need to get to a hospital.” And it’s my second Apparation within as many minutes, though thankfully Lance does all the work, that brings us to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The Healers there treat my foot with Dittany and some spells, but there’s nothing to be done about finding and reattaching my toe, since I don’t know where the building was where I Apparated from. My toe could be anywhere. At least the group of people studying me will have a souvenir for them to continue their work, if they will. It’s a disgusting idea, yet somehow I wouldn’t put it past them, and the macabre humour of it makes me laugh. Or maybe I’m laughing because of the pain potions.

Once I’ve been released, we head back to Lance’s flat and I tell him all about what happened the past few days, and he tells me how worried he was about me. I fall asleep on the sofa, wake up late on Sunday, and spend the remaining part of the day lounging around, resting my foot, and reorganizing Lance’s shelf of movies.

And then it’s Monday. After three weeks of nothing and three days of insanity, the day is here. Lance and I go to the Ministry together. Fortunately, when we arrive, the crowds haven’t assembled yet for the launch; it’s just me, the crew, and Lance.

After a long, tearful goodbye with Lance, and endless declarations of my thanks and gratitude, he goes off inside to another Monday in the office, and I climb aboard the _Daedalus_ for my journey home. Mostly I just stay out of the way of the crew until departure, when they all have radio headsets on and are calling commands back and forth, while I stare out the window silently in the control room. The launch is quieter than I thought it would be: slowly we levitate, higher and higher, while down on the ground below us cameras flash, and people wave and cheer and count down. 

The specks on the ground shrink to a blur, the sky expands around us. Eventually the engine kicks in with a big roar, once the individual specks of people blend into an undifferentiated crowd so far below us. Part of me wonders where Marta is, whether she’s in that assembled crowd, or at her home sleeping, or if she managed to sneak on board or something. I wonder what Iris and Dr Lee are doing, and whether or not they found my toe outside their building. I wonder if Lance is working away in his office, or if he’s watching the launch. I wonder if Miriam is at this moment inventing time travel.

But, I suppose, that’s all behind me now. I will never see them again, and what awaits me is the people I’ve known and loved for years, not these almost-copies of them. Our takeoff marks a new page for me, where it’s all different from here on out. I can’t compare it to anything I know from back home. And I can’t help but grin as the big blue sky begins to deepen around us and fade to indigo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The trouble with this story is that it actually writes itself. (None of this chapter was even supposed to happen in my original ‘plan’.) So um… thoughts?  
> Next chapter is in space!  
> Thanks for reading :)


	12. 2032: A Parallel Universe Odyssey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I turn down the opportunity to become Frankenstein’s monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the fantastic 800wordsofheaven, who is a lovely person and also an amazingly talented writer. If you haven’t already, you should check out her stories, especially her Chai series – it will change your life.

I just woke up… on a spaceship. In space. It’s absolutely the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me; if not in my whole life, then at least in the past month. Isn’t it every child’s dream to be an astronaut? And here I basically am one, even if I can’t walk around because my foot is still healing from the Splinching incident the other day. But I don’t need to be able to walk in order to see the planets zipping by outside, or at least the two that were close enough in their orbits to be visible to us on our way out of the solar system. Besides, I know that Lance, for all his love of science-fiction, is going to be so jealous of me when I finally see him again on the other side and tell him about flying on a spaceship. (Well, either that or he’ll be furious with me for not returning his stolen universe portal cube.)

Patrick, the medic, has been checking on me every now and then to ensure my foot is all right. And Sierra, one of the scientists, offered to grow me a new toe in the lab. (…I _think_ she was joking.) At any rate, my foot is healing, and I didn’t take Sierra up on her offer. So I have nine toes now. It’ll take some adjusting to, particularly my sense of balance, but I have always preferred odd numbers to even numbers, so I can’t complain.

Being here is a bit weird though, for me as a passenger. Mostly because I’m the only one who’s not actually working. Everyone else is there to crew the ship, or to do science. This is their job. I’m basically a leech, albeit a really nice one, and it’s an odd feeling for me. Growing up as the best friend of an overachiever and the daughter of a celebrity, I haunted the Hogwarts library from dawn until dusk, and always worked hard to ensure that I earned everything I got, on my own merit rather than my fame. Maybe that’s why my current state of idleness doesn’t sit well with me. And no one really seems to need my help.

After dressing, I hobble down the hall and take a seat in the lounge opposite the galley, elevating my foot on the seat of another chair.

“Pie?” asks a voice, and I turn to see Alex behind the worktop in the galley, their long dark hair in a messy ponytail, and their hands ensconced in thick orange oven mitts.

“Pie?” I repeat. “I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“That was hours ago,” says Alex, opening the oven door and reaching in; the incredible aroma of cinnamon and apple wafts through the hall. “It’s half eleven! But it’s all right, you’re just in time for pie.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Alex shrugs. “Just felt like making one.”

It’s a good enough reason for me. If I was at all worried about what quality of food we’d be having for our voyage, I am no longer, because with this as any indication, we’ll be eating very well.

Alex seems to have no end to their supply of band T-shirts; today’s is green and printed with the curly words Devil’s Snare – one of Marta’s favourite bands. And an old memory floats back to me, from my early years at Hogwarts when my cousin Louis’s band played at Gryffindor parties; I think one of the other people in the band was named Alex. But I can’t be sure; most of my involvement at parties at that age was just leaving them.

“Were you ever in a band called Gryffindor Rules with my cousin Louis?” I blurt.

Alex looks up, eyebrows raised. “You know, I _was_ in a band at Hogwarts,” they say. “But it was called Defenestration, and it was shite. And there was no one named Louis in it.”

Maybe Louis Weasley never existed here either; the idea of people not existing here almost doesn’t faze me anymore. So I don’t inquire further about that, and instead ask, “What instrument do you play?”

“The saw.”

This time it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows.

“I brought it with me on board,” Alex continues. “But I don’t know how often I’ll play it here. Fatima says it sounds like the engine malfunctioning.”

We both laugh at this. “So what is everyone else up to?” I ask. “Am I… allowed to visit the control room at all, now that we’re properly under way?”

Yeah, once we exit the solar system it should be fine, it’ll be a lot less crazy. But that won’t be long at the speed we’re going, like, several million miles per hour – it’s only day two and we’re passing Neptune. And Celeste said that once we’re out of the solar system, we’ll be going faster than light.”

Faster than light! I still can’t believe it. “Cool, I’ll have to stop by later then. Er, is there anything I can do to help in here, by the way? I’m all right at cooking, and I’d love to do something useful if I can.”

Alex smiles. “Lunch is pretty much made already, but thanks. I appreciate the offer. Lyle sometimes helps with cooking, but if both of us are busy, I’ll be sure to ask you when I need any help.”

I may be a pretty mediocre cook in general, but there are a few things I can do really well, thanks to my Nana Molly, who is the best cook ever and taught each of her grandchildren a few of her recipes. It’s rather funny in the case of Albus, whose typical idea of cooking means using heating charms on instant frozen food, except when it comes to pumpkin bread he’s basically a professional.

Alex hovers their hand over the pie, and upon deciding it’s cooled enough, they slice a piece out of the apple pie, put it on a plate, and walk it over to me.

“Thank you!” I exclaim. “For the pie, and for actually bringing it over here to me.”

“I’d be a rubbish friend if I made you walk over here while you’re recovering from a foot Splinching,” says Alex.

“You have to have some pie too,” I insist, as Alex starts to walk back into the galley. “You just told me you were already done making lunch, so you have nothing else to do other than share this slice of pie with me.”

Apparently this is how I make friends now; I actively impose it, rather than just quietly hiding from people until they win me over. This universe has changed me. Then again, am I really _me_ here?

Alex and I share the slice of pie and talk about music. Well, it’s mostly Alex doing the talking, because I am still an introvert even if I am more assertive at making friends now, and because Alex knows a lot more about music than I do. Most of the music I listened to for the past year was just Iris singing in the shower in our flat.

Eventually we both head up to the control room. Almost everyone on the crew is in there. Sierra the biologist and Eric the assistant engineer are sitting at a table playing wizard chess, even though they’re both Muggles – although I suppose the game is the same, aside from the moving pieces. Fatima is looking out the window, watching the large blue sphere of Neptune drift by. Guillermo is drawing lines on a large chart that looks important, and Celeste is seated by the main controls, typing on an electronic thing.

Alex walks over to Celeste and interrupts her typing. “This is a log entry,” says Celeste, shooing Alex’s hands away. “Get your apple-cinnamon-scented hands out of here.”

“I hope you made a note in the log about the fact that I made a delicious pie,” says Alex.

“I haven’t tried it yet, so I can’t confirm that it is delicious. In other words, no.”

I leave Alex and Celeste to their fun and join Fatima by the window, because honestly that’s the most interesting place to be at the moment. I can play chess anytime, and I still feel like a bit of an outsider around Alex and Celeste, considering they have been friends since Hogwarts. But here, I’m watching the solar system zipping by just outside the window as the _Daedalus_ glides through ink, the pinpricks of distant suns the only embellishment in all the emptiness. Behind us, our own sun is still visible from here, but smaller, and not as bright as I’m used to. I could probably stand by the window for the entire voyage and not get bored – it’s an amazing, surreal view.

“Does this view ever get old for you?” I ask Fatima.

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” she replies, smiling. 

“I just can’t get over how cool this is.” I gawk a little more, and then ask Fatima about her voyage to Mars. She was there as engineer, and also to help build the research station that is being installed on Mars. Wonders never cease. But this world has no more of an answer than my own about whether or not Mars has supported life. With any luck, though, people in this universe will be learning that soon, what with having a study station right there.

Specks of light zip past outside the ship as Fatima and I continue talking to one another’s reflections in the window. I ask her how she ended up with a job like this, and she tells me about her journey to becoming an engineer. As a child, she was brilliant in maths and science and dreamed of being an engineer, but her parents never encouraged her in engineering, feeling that it was more of a boy’s career, so they instead encouraged her brother Ahmad in that pursuit. But Ahmad wanted to be a ceramic artist, and didn’t have the mathematical mind of his sister. Fatima kept trying to follow her dream, and Ahmad supported her in it, and eventually her parents finally also grew to accept it when they saw how successful and how happy Fatima was.

Fatima’s brother now has his own successful pottery shop in London, and of course Fatima herself is the engineer on her second long and important space voyage. When she asks me about myself, I don’t know what to say, because I haven’t done anything near as interesting. Then again, I haven’t had as many years to do so – I’d estimate she’s in her late thirties, so she’s got maybe fifteen years on me. So I tell her that I’m still trying to figure out my dream, and that I hope I can be as determined and as successful as she has been.

As we’ve been talking, the noise in the control room briefly diminished, and then bloomed again along with the scent of apple pie, as people cleared out to the galley to get a snack and brought it back up to the bridge. Only Celeste remained diligently working the whole time, but Alex brought back an extra slice of pie for her. Fatima and I eventually migrate over to Sierra and Eric’s discarded chess board and begin a game.

“Was the planet Balthazar chosen for any particular reason?” I ask Fatima as we line up our pieces on the squares, and she taps her knight with her wand to fix the damage done to it by Sierra’s pieces in the previous game. “What made anyone decide to go all the way out to do research there?” I feel a little silly that I don’t already know this, but Miriam Zhou and I mostly discussed how my returning to my proper universe would work, rather than why anyone was going out there in the first place other than the vague description of ‘science’.

“It was,” said Fatima, then adds, “Pawn to E4,” and continues. “The research station there is rather new. The reason Balthazar was chosen in particular was because it was giving off peculiar radio signals that got picked up by the Arecibo radiotelescope.”

“The what?”

“The largest radiotelescope in the world; it’s in Puerto Rico. Anyway, people were wondering if there was some form of intelligent life sending out a message, sort of like the signals broadcasted out of Arecibo about fifty years ago. A response, maybe. And we traced it to that planet.”

“Do you think the radio signal has anything to do with that portal on the planet? The one I’m supposed to be going through? Knight to F6.”

“It would not surprise me. Anything that has the power to transfer someone or something to another dimension would give off strong signals.”

“Either that or there’s something alive on the planet that sent a radio message to Earth.”

“Or possibly both,” says Fatima. “That is the reason we’re going out there – to figure it out.”

These people are all like space detectives. What they’re doing is the sort of thing that sounds incredible to read about, or watch a fictional film about, but when it comes to actually living it – it’s a bit scary, to be honest. At least for me. (But then again I’m afraid of moths, which objectively aren’t that scary, so I don’t know if I’m qualified to judge scariness.) The atmosphere in the control room is far from apprehensive, though – it’s like a bunch of good friends just enjoying each other’s company as we fly through space together.

Despite the number of chess games I’ve played against my cousin Hugo throughout our lives, I still lose to Fatima, but I can’t really feel too bad about losing to the strategy of a brilliant engineer’s mind. Afterwards, Fatima leaves the control room and heads down and aft to do an engine check and her hourly round of propulsion spells – it’s the magic that keeps this ship from taking a thousand years to reach Balthazar. It takes light forty years, as it is.

Around the same time, Guillermo switches out with Celeste; he settles into the Captain’s Chair and makes a note in the log, marking the turnover to afternoon watch. Celeste stretches and then heads for the forward ladder. “Lily, come with me for a second,” she says, and I leap up and follow. I don’t want to keep the captain waiting, or in fact make anyone annoyed at me in any small way, because there’s only about a foot of material that separates the inside and the outside of the spaceship, and well, consequences are dire if they throw me out.

“It’s nothing important,” says Celeste as we descend into the lounge, which is empty except for Alex sprawled and snoring on one of the sofas. In the adjacent galley, the assistant cook, Lyle, is busy at the stove. Celeste sits on a yellow cushion at the far end of the lounge, where it’s a bit quieter. “I just wanted a chance to chat with you,” Celeste continues, while I choose an orange cushion next to hers. She adds, “I don’t do much socialising when I’m on duty, obviously, and all day yesterday was pretty busy with getting started on our voyage and plotting our route through the solar system.”

It’s true. I hardly saw her at all yesterday, and just sat around in different chairs elevating my injured foot. I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way, not when everyone was kind of rushing everywhere and constantly doing things. There was no room for me to stop in and chat, so I’m glad Celeste has pulled me aside today to do so; it makes me feel a lot less like an outsider when the captain actually makes time for me.

She mentions the article she saw in the newspaper, and I tell her about my narrow escape from confinement in a lab, and she says not to worry, if I hadn’t been present the morning of the launch she would have stopped by to pick me up on the way.

I laugh. “You’d have just flown over in this big ship just to come get me?”

“I think it’d certainly have made a statement,” says Celeste. “It would teach them not to interfere with my plans. I was supposed to bring you to Balthazar, and I was on a schedule – and I was _going_ to accomplish my task.”

“All that work I did to escape – and to think I could have just waited and then departed in style!”

Celeste grins. She has a very bright smile. “Yes, well it probably won’t happen again now, but anytime you need a lift…”

I laugh. I’m pretty impressed with her ability to switch between serious, focussed captain and approachable friend – not many people can manage to be all of that. Perhaps there are actually two of her.

We sit a little while longer and talk, but then she tells me that she’s been awake for far too many hours and is off to take a nap. As she leaves, Janice, the second mate, walks through the lounge with a canvas bag full of yarn and knitting needles in one hand, a thick binder labeled _SYSTEMS_ in the other hand, and says hello. I browse around the lounge and find a little shelf of books attached to the wall. One of the books in there is in fact the same mystery novel I started reading at home in another life, when Iris and I had a night in. So I pull out the book and curl up, at least until Patrick and Eric stop in and invite me to play cards with them (Muggle card games! Once again I lose spectacularly).

Despite the uncertainty awaiting me at the destination, I’m certain I’m going to enjoy the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: the chapter title is a nod to _2001: A Space Odyssey_ by Arthur C. Clarke and Stanley Kubrick.  
> **  
>  Thanks for reading!  
> P.S. Your reviews give me life.


	13. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I sort a spaceship into a Hogwarts house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for MuggleMaybe, who is not only an incredible and generous person, but also leaves swoon-worthy reviews. Thanks for being a great friend!

_CAPTAIN’S LOG_  
DAY 26  
2 JULY 2032 

_Passing AQA-913b, the nearest planet to the red dwarf star AQA-913. We are approx 15 light-years from Earth. Did an emergency practice drill for fire today; response times were about 25% faster than the one on the 18th June. Monthly systems preventative maintenance is complete._

*

“What’s that you’re writing?” I ask, perching on the side of the table where Celeste is typing. She uses her elbow to nudge my leg aside, so I sigh and stand up again while Celeste resumes her work.

 _Lily is obnoxious_ , she types, a smirk twisting her face.

“Oi!”

“Between you and Alex, I’m never given a moment’s peace to write the log,” says Celeste, erasing her most recent sentence. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“I just finished.” Now that my foot has healed, I’ve been able to help out with some tasks on the ship. Cleaning spells, mostly, because there are twelve of us on board in a relatively small space, and there’s always a lot of cleaning to be done, not to mention I’m pretty decent with cleaning spells, having lived with Iris’ neat-freak tendencies for so long.

One of Celeste’s dreadlocks has swung forward to hang in front of her eye, and she shakes her head slightly to get it back out of the way. “Okay. Well if you need something else to do, ask Guillermo. I’ve got some course-plotting to do. After we switch watches and I have a few hours off duty, I’d be glad to talk, but now’s not a good time.”

I can’t fault Celeste for being focussed. So I bother Guillermo, who as first mate is responsible for organising the crew.

“Perfect timing,” Guillermo says after I inform him that I’ve finished cleaning the loo (or as they say, the head, and probably everyone’s least favourite cleaning task, with which I tend to get stuck most of the time because everyone else can use the excuse of having work to do). “We need a deep clean of the galley. As soon as Sierra has finished in the lab I’ll send her in to join you as well.”

So I walk back down the steps into the galley, and find Alex in the adjoining lounge doing a crossword puzzle, the grungy music of the Augureys blaring out of a speaker shaped like a Pygmy Puff. “I’m cleaning the galley,” I inform them.

“Cheers,” says Alex. “Make sure to get the area outboard of the stove, it’s disgusting.”

“Ugh,” I whine. For a moment I contemplate how unfair it is that Alex can just sit around enjoying themselves while I do chores, but then I remember that Alex works basically all day to make food for the rest of us, and this is one of their rare hours off, so I set to work in the galley with no further comment.

With magic, cleaning is easy enough, but it’s not instantaneous. I can’t clean up the entire galley with one wave of my wand; different spells are used for different sorts of cleaning, and I have to focus each spell on a specific area. But it’s still about three times as fast as doing chores without magic. It usually means that those of us who possess magical ability end up doing significantly more chores than the Muggles, because it takes us less time – they have to do it all by hand.

That was one of the things that stood out to me most about being part of the crew on a spaceship – everyone works hard and we all sort of pick up the slack for one another if needed, so things that need to get done actually get done. And no one is finished until everyone is finished. It’s about as fair as it can be, considering that we all have such a wide range of abilities. If the _Daedalus_ were a person and it were sorted at Hogwarts, it would be a Hufflepuff.

I’ve tried about twelve charms on the sticky, burnt mess under the oven, but it’s a very persistent mess. Sighing, I conjure up a sponge and start to scrub at it manually. Then I hear footsteps and turn around to see Alex hurrying into the galley, still carrying their crossword book in one hand.

“Look, look, look!” They tug on my grimy sleeve, leading me out of the galley and over to the small circular window in the wall of the lounge, which provides a view out into the vacuum of space. There’s usually not much to see out there, aside from the usual bright stars in the distance, but today we’re passing by a planet, a big reddish-purple orb that occupies most of the view in the window.

“Cool!”

“What is it?” asks another voice, and I turn to see Sierra entering the lounge, carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies for the galley – she must have finished in the lab. “Can you see it now? 913b?”

“Yeah!” I tell her. “Have a look.” Alex and I shift aside, and Sierra wedges herself between us, positioning her face in front of the window.

“Ah, it’s amazing. It’s so close!”

She can’t tear herself away from the scene, until her breath starts misting up the thick window; she backs up to clear it off with her sleeve, and then looks out again. Clearly she’s not very enthused about the prospect of deep-clean in the galley awaiting her afterward, but to be fair, the view is pretty incredible. When she retreats again, I stick my face in the window. 913b really is so close, and it continues to amaze me how we’re living such a normal life, doing cleaning chores and all, in the midst of the constellation Aquarius light-years away from Earth. Moments like this just define how very real it is.

But before long, the planet has vanished behind us, and is no longer visible. Nothing is visible behind the ship, in fact, since we’re going faster than the speed of light. It’s like we leave a wake of darkness in space.

Beside me, Sierra snaps on some gloves, picks up her cleaning supplies, and turns to me. “Ready?” she asks. “I call the dry goods shelves.”

And so we get to work, occasionally stopping to one-up the other with some outrageous mess we’ve found. I show her the sticky patch under the oven that I’ve been working on. Sierra finds a dead spider crushed under a 25kg bag of flour in the back of the shelf. (How a spider even got on this ship is beyond me. So that fact I once heard about how you’re never more than six feet away from a spider is apparently true, even past the end of the solar system.) I discover a silly note in a cupboard from Lyle, the assistant cook. And the cleaning isn’t so bad, not when we have conversation and music to entertain us.

“DJ Alex?” Sierra calls into the lounge. “Can I request some Weird Sisters?”

“Coming right up!”

It takes us a couple of hours, and at one point we’re working around Alex as they come back to start cooking dinner, but Sierra and I eventually finish. Every surface in the galley is spotless and shiny.

With the last of the cleaning done, Sierra and I play cards after that; she introduces me to some Muggle card games, and I describe Exploding Snap to her (we don’t have it on board, just because of the fire hazard). And then it’s time for a wonderful dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread, for which most of the crew has gathered in the lounge – everyone except Guillermo, Janice, and Eric, who have the later shifts on duty today. It’s kind of a family atmosphere, with us all gathered around eating together, and it’s one of my favourite things about this place.

After dinner, I return to my quarters and the piles of previous voyage logs I’ve been reading, as well as reports from scientists at the Balthazar research station. Lately I’ve been skimming Indira Agrawal’s accounts of the portal on Balthazar – she’s the scientist who went missing last time, so reading her notes is a bit eerie.

She describes the entrance to the portal as the mouth of a cave whose interior reminds her of a black hole; any light failed to penetrate into the cave, and even with four of the scientists shining a torch in there, the walls were still invisible.

Apparently on the team’s first voyage in there, after walking down a slope through pitch darkness in which the torches didn’t even illuminate one another’s faces, they eventually emerged in a room that contained what looked like a flat, glowing green gemstone embedded in the floor, the only source of light. One of the scientists had touched the stone and it lit up into what Agrawal later theorised was a holographic map of the galaxy floating in the otherwise oppressive darkness, and could potentially be a technological means to interplanetary Apparation.

The gem had then begun rotating through different colours, and while the exterior display of stars and planets remained mostly the same, a few were missing when the gem was red, replaced with black holes. One of the other scientists, Cartwright, had suggested that these were different parallel worlds, but Agrawal’s notes imply that she doubted this claim. 

Unfortunately, this particular exploration had been cut short when they heard the echoes of something moving around on the floor, and with no way to see anything or even tell how near it was, they had all clutched on to one another and Apparated out to the mouth of the cave.

*

An oscillating, wailing sound echoes through the corridors of the _Daedalus_ , waking me from a peaceful sleep, and I open the door of my quarters to see what it is; seconds later, Fatima’s door across the hall flies open and she rushes out, headed aft. Past her door I can see into her room: a tapestry on the wall, a cardboard box of books beneath it, an empty fish tank, a toolkit, and fluffy slippers. On the floor is a prayer rug that’s faced towards the stern of the ship, where the planet Earth (and therefore Mecca) is behind us.

“Fatima?” I call after her, but she’s clearly in a hurry and doesn’t stop.

Then I wonder if we’re having another fire drill. Or maybe this is a drill for a different emergency. So I head aft as well, planning to go up the stairs into the control room, but I stop when I reach the galley, where Fatima has stopped running and where Alex is seated on one of the cushions in the lounge with a handsaw and a violin bow across their lap.

“It really does sound like a quiet version of the engine high-heat alarm,” Fatima is saying.

“I’m sorry,” says Alex. “I even put up a notice in the galley this time to warn you that I’d be playing at 10:30, didn’t you see it?”

“Oh. I didn’t have breakfast this morning,” Fatima explains, sitting down on a cushion near Alex’s. “Just coffee. I had a lot of work to do.”

“Really? Well, I can fix you something. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and all.”

“That’s kind of you, but no thanks. I should get back to my report. And erm, your music sounded… lovely.” She stands up again.

Alex grins. “That’s quite an endorsement,” they say. “Really though, I’m sorry I caused you any panic.”

As Fatima leaves, Alex shakes their head in disbelief. “Lovely?” they repeat, looking up at me. “ _Lovely_. After she literally just told me it sounds like the heat alarm.”

I’m sure Fatima is just trying to be nice. Or maybe she likes the sound of the heat alarm. Too much time alone in the engine room could do that to a person, I’m sure. Except the screech of alarms on this ship are really loud; even if the sound pattern is similar, the difference in volume is enough that she couldn’t possibly get them mixed up unless she was up all night writing her report… which is possible, now that I think about it.

I shrug at Alex, who picks up their bow again and begins playing. If someone ever made a soundtrack to a haunted house, this would be it. But since there is no emergency drill, I head back to my quarters, and then decide there’s no point going back to sleep as I’m already awake, and Alex’s saw playing is echoing through the corridor. So instead maybe I’ll stop by the gym, and hopefully not too many people have the same idea because it’s not really large enough to accommodate more than three of us at a time. 

Although a small facility, it’s definitely nice to have, as living in simulated gravity for months on end takes a toll on a person. The gravity was weird at first, but now I don’t notice it as much anymore – how each step you take feels just a bit lighter than back home on Earth. Celeste says the onboard gravity is equivalent to that of a smaller planet or the Moon.

About forty-five minutes later, I’m back in the lounge, lamenting the fact that my arms are dying and my legs feel like jelly. I suppose that is a good thing, though. Anyway, I’m starving, so I raid the dish of scones Alex left on the worktop.

“Hungry?” asks a voice. Celeste is watching me over the top of her mug of coffee. I nod, as it would be rude to talk with this much food in my mouth (it’s a bad habit, I know; definitely from Mum’s side of the family).

“Are you off watch?” I ask her, once I’m sure I can do so without spraying her with bits of scone.

She smiles. “Yes, for six whole hours. Luxury.”

I sit down on an adjacent cushion, and offer a scone to Celeste, who takes it. “I haven’t actually had scones in ages. Oh, are these currants in here?”

“Yeah.”

Celeste nods, then sort of smiles to herself. When she looks back up at me and catches me watching her, she explains: “My ex-girlfriend used to only put jam on scones if it matched the fruit in the scone. So, if there were bits of raspberry in the scone, it had to be raspberry jam with it.”

I laugh. “But what if there was no fruit in the scone?”

“Then any jam was fine.” She shakes her head, smiling, and then takes a bite of the scone. “These are good. I’ll have to let Alex know.”

Next to her on the cushion is a book that appears to be about particle physics and magic, which I’d like to assume she has to read for her captainly duties, but I’ve learnt enough about Celeste by this point to know she’s actually reading that for fun. “Good reading?” I ask, gesturing towards the book beside her, hoping she won’t go too into detail with her enthusiasm for it, because anything I say will sound rather dim in comparison if I try to respond.

“It’s delightful,” says Celeste. “I’ll lend it to you after I’ve finished, if you like?”

“Er…” I begin, but then I notice her smirk behind her coffee mug. I smile too, and Celeste laughs aloud. Her laugh is like music, a short cascade of notes.

“I saw the look of terror in your eyes,” she teases. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you read it. But it _is_ very interesting. A lot of this was discovered by Muggles, as well, and the chapter I just read even explains a theory on how magic works.”

“Ooh, really? How does it work?”

“Well, magic is quite similar to light, it turns out, in how it functions and the different forms it takes on; energy, particles, et cetera. Which is why only some people are able to use magic – those of us who have the genetic ability to access that form of energy. Being a Muggle is sort of like colour-blindness, only more common in the population, of course.”

This actually makes sense to me, and I’m even more impressed with Celeste for not only understanding all of this, but also being able to effectively translate it to someone with little background in science. Lance should take notes. “It’s very easy to understand how you became captain of a spaceship,” I muse.

Her eyebrows inch up her forehead. “Is it?” she asks. 

“Well, yeah, you’re brilliant, and you’re a great leader and communicator.”

“Thank you.” She watches me for a second, and my face grows hot as I feel as if I’m under scrutiny. Then she flicks one of her dreadlocks back behind her shoulder and adds, “Ever since I first heard about people going on voyages to other planets, I knew I wanted to be an important part of it – I knew that’s where I wanted to be. Two summers at Hogwarts, I had an Astronomy internship at the Ministry, and after Hogwarts I took Muggle subjects like physics, and was still rejected by two other voyages before this one. I worked hard to get where I am. After all, I’m a black woman living in a white man’s world. And I’m young, for a captain, which makes others in the industry less inclined to take me seriously. I’ve always had to prove I deserve the recognition I get, and it’s not easy.”

“I had no idea,” I admit. I don’t know what else to say, because I don’t want her to know just how different it is for me. I may have struggled with some things in my past, the weight of fame and having to work hard in order to live up to high expectations, but recognition was always handed to me pretty easily, whether or not I wanted it. Celeste, on the other hand, has had to fight for it, and I’m assuming that her position as captain of a space voyage is not something she takes for granted. I’m a bit in awe of her dedication.

My memory casts back to a month and a half ago when I was at home the night Iris told us about her engagement, when I lied to Lance about applying for jobs and he quoted Spider-Man to me, telling me I should use my privilege to make a difference. I’m already famous, so people will listen to me if I speak up about important things, he said. And now I’m beginning to really understand what he meant, and maybe he was right after all. My fame and privilege will never go away, so why don’t I do something useful and productive with it? Besides, when I return to my old life, I’ll probably be in the limelight more than ever, after having been missing for a couple of months. So maybe I will use that platform to start raising my voice about things that are important to me.

But when I think of returning home, now, I can’t help but feel a touch of sadness, mixed in with the excitement of seeing Iris, Marta, and Lance again. I’ve become so close with the crew of the _Daedalus_ already; it feels like I’ve known them for years, and I won’t want to say goodbye. 

It’s actually reached the point now where I’ve gone at least a week without even thinking about home or the friends and family I’ve left behind – well, until now, that is. I’m just so fully immersed in my life here. I admit I did think a lot about Marta three weeks ago; it was her birthday on the 11th, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing, and whether she dragged Iris to Steve’s Pub. Or if Iris made a cake for her. Whether Marta made a move on Lance while drunk. Until this year, I’d never missed Marta’s birthday since we became friends at age fourteen, ten years ago, so it was odd to not be celebrating with her. Otherwise, though, the universe I came from seems like a lifetime ago. I’m becoming increasingly attached to my new life, and getting a lot of perspective from everything that’s happened in the past month.

Celeste is still watching me; I realise that I haven’t really responded to her yet, and I should. I’m a bit paralysed as for what to say, because I don’t want her to hate me for being a celebrity and having a relatively easy life because of it, but maybe it’s an important thing to talk about, and anyway, I can’t hide this side of me forever.

“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” I tell her quietly, trying to fight through my embarrassment. “It’s not fair that you have to work twice as hard as I do for anything, because of something neither of us can control. Back home, I’m, well, I’m famous, sort of. People just throw opportunities at my feet because they want to say they have Lily Potter working for them.”

Celeste’s eyebrows are about to disappear into her hair. “I never would have figured you for a celebrity, Lily,” she says. “You always seemed down-to-earth.” Then she frowns a bit, and adds, “Pardon the pun, since we’re nowhere near Earth.”

This elicits a laugh from me. “Well, I’ve never liked my fame. I’m only famous because of my father fighting a dark wizard when he was a teenager. So I’ve faced the opposite problem as you – much more privilege and recognition than I ever deserved or asked for, and then not being able to live up to it and what’s expected of me. I never would’ve amounted to anything if I’d faced the same obstacles you have. But if you were me, you’d be… I don’t know, Minister for Magic and have won three Nobel Prizes and have a university named after you. And that’s not fair.”

“Well, then you can do something about it when you go back home,” Celeste suggests, not unkindly; in fact, she seems rather excited, which doesn’t surprise me considering what a passionate activist she is, or so I’ve gathered. “Really. You can! I’ve always been a firm believer that if you don’t like the way things are, then you can change it if you work hard enough for it. You could even use your fame as a way to protest inequalities.”

It’s almost exactly what Lance suggested, all those months ago, and I tell her so. Part of me wonders how Celeste would fit in with my group of friends back home. She and Lance seem to think rather similarly, and I know she’d get on superbly with Iris. I just don’t know what Marta would think of her. (To be honest, I can never predict what Marta will think of anything.)

But, sadly, my old friends will never get to meet Celeste, since I obviously can’t just bring her back with me. It’s possible that she exists back home, or some version of her exists – which would be a lot like meeting Iris, Marta, and Lance here – a bit underwhelming, as I’ll remember all of our history and she’ll think me a stranger.

Regardless, I’m glad I did decide to tell Celeste about my past, even if it highlighted the stark differences between our lives. It also gave me a lot of hope, and great ideas of how I’ll change things for the better when I return, and that’s something I can use right about now.

But in the meantime, Celeste and I decide to split the last remaining scone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Special thanks to NASA for discovering new exoplanets last week.
> 
> And on that note, if anyone is curious about where in space this story is all happening, don’t worry, I did plenty of research to make it as realistic as a sci-fi Harry Potter fanfiction can be :P As Lily mentioned, they are headed in the direction of Aquarius; the star the crew passed on the 28th June, which they called AQA-913, is known in the real world as Gliese 876. Their destination, known as Balthazar in this parallel universe, is to us the newly discovered TRAPPIST-1g.


	14. All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we all fly close to the sun, but in a non-metaphorical sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is dedicated to Erin (Theia), because if she hadn’t hosted the sci-fi challenge in the first place, this story would likely be nothing but a discarded outline collecting dust. I can’t thank you enough for giving me the impetus to finally get this idea onto paper.**

_CAPTAIN’S LOG_  
DAY 64  
9 AUGUST 2032 

_Today marks the halfway point to Balthazar – we are slightly behind schedule. Engine repairs are complete, and hull maintenance is in progress: three crew members (Fatima, Sierra, and Lily) took the small shuttle for this purpose at 14:00. Minor incident in the galley this morning, but Patrick says Lyle is fine aside from the concussion._

_We’re hoping to send a transmission back home by the end of the day today, including flight statistics for the Ministries (both Magical and Muggle), as well as messages from the crew to their families at home._

*

“Spanner?” asks Sierra, her voice crackling into my headset.

I lean down and rifle through Fatima’s box of tools, grab a massive spanner, and slam the box shut again before all the tools can float away out of it. Once I’ve climbed up the little three-step ladder and opened the hatch of the shuttle pod, I hand the spanner up to Sierra where she’s tethered onto the outside of the _Daedalus_ , Fatima about ten feet away inspecting a seam in the metal.

All of us are ensconced in thick suits; not like the old static Muggle photos from back home where the men look as if they’re wearing upside-down fishbowls and puffy ski suits, but practical and easy to manoeuvre in. The suit part of it is heated with Warming Charms to counteract the frigid vacuum of space, and the helmet is sort of rectangular, with air fed in through a hose that’s connected to a tank on my back.

This is my first time actually in space, without walls or artificial gravity around me. This is the real thing. Granted, I’ve been in the vestibule of the shuttle for most of it, but when we first got the shuttle in place for maintenance, Fatima let me get out and float around in space for a few minutes before I went back in the shuttle and Sierra came out to help with the work. After all, Fatima and Sierra know what they’re doing, and they’ve years of training with this sort of thing, so even just handing up tools is good enough for me. But I’m learning a lot just being around them.

“Looks good,” says Fatima’s voice in my headset. “I’m ready to head back in when you are.”

“Roger,” says Sierra. “Almost done.”

I open the shuttle hatch again and begin reeling Fatima back in as Sierra finishes up, and she’s done by the time Fatima enters the shuttle. She remains in the vestibule with me until Sierra is back in, and then the three of us seal the shuttle hatch, wait for the pressurisation, and descend through the other hatch into the main part of the shuttle. Fatima pilots us back into the shuttle bay.

“All good?” Celeste asks us when we enter back into the control room of the _Daedalus_.

“Yes,” says Fatima.

“Great,” says Celeste, and checks off something on her log. Fatima, Sierra, and I descend the ladder, passing Fatima’s toolbox down, and as we pass through the lounge on our way to the engine room I see Guillermo speaking to a screen in rapid Spanish; based on his tone of voice, I can guess that he’s recording a message to send home to his teenage daughters. (His personal log entries, which he also records primarily in Spanish, sound a lot less enthusiastic in comparison.)

We reach the engine room and stow the toolbox on a shelf, as well as our thick air suits in a cupboard. The engine is a dazzling array of colours at the moment, sending jets of light out through the perforated grate housing it that give the overhead a psychedelic appearance. We must be going quite quickly.

As I’m about to leave the engine room, Sierra, behind me, stops suddenly and turns around. I look back to see her join Fatima at the engine, where Fatima is struggling with a heavy lever, the one that always sticks. Sierra grabs onto it with her, and together they shift it into place.

“Thanks,” says Fatima with a grateful smile. “Looks like I need to oil that again.” She sorts through a drawer of tools, and I, perhaps feeling guilty for not noticing and helping right away, ask, “Is there anything else I can help with?”

“I appreciate it, Lily, but all I’ve got left is just this lever. Thanks for your help today with the outside maintenance.”

“Of course, you’re welcome,” I say, and Sierra and I depart.

I check with Celeste in the control room to see if there’s anything else that needs to be done that I can assist with. When there isn’t, I stop back in the lounge, find a seat (Patrick has taken my favourite one), and pick up my reading material: previous trip logs, once again, this time a post-voyage report written by Cartwright, one of the other scientists on the first Balthazar expedition who was there with Agrawal but managed to make it out alive. I’ve already read through it once, but seeing as the first month of my experience in this parallel universe was marked by a distinct lack of any planning whatsoever, I intend to be as prepared for the next phase as I can. (I suppose there really is no way to fully prepare for alternate universe-hopping through portals when no one’s actually done it before, but this is the best I can do with what’s available to me.)

After the first attempt to explore the cave had been aborted by the sound of something slithering around in the dark, the team had tried two more times, bringing Muggle weapons with them in addition to wands, as a precaution in case the moving things they’d heard before were hostile. On the first revisit, they’d activated the gem again, and Cartwright, Agrawal, and Yang had touched it, later claiming to have seen ghosts and mirror images of themselves.

The hypothesis presented here is that the changing colours of the planets in the glowing model universe suggest different realities, supported by the idea that the duplicates they saw of themselves were in fact themselves. This report is almost word-for-word what I heard from Miriam Zhou back on Earth. And it’s the most complete documentation we have, because Agrawal’s was unfinished, due to her disappearance during the team’s third and final visit to the cave.

Cartwright’s account of Agrawal’s disappearance is haunting. The timing of her disappearance coincided with the gem glowing yellow and with the arrival of the swishing noises on the ground. Cartwright says that while Agrawal is assumed to be dead, they never did find her in the dark – in fact never found anything solid on the ground at all – and it’s possible she was transported to another universe and may even still be alive. In other words, the team couldn’t determine whether her disappearance was related to the gem or to the things living in the cave.

Honestly, the more I read about this place, the more terrified I am. Re-reading the trip reports has made me very prepared for what the cave with the portal will look like, but that can only get me so far. Then I’ll either go home as planned, link up to a different universe entirely, or be eaten by formless cave aliens.

A noise in the lounge startles me, as I’d been so wrapped up in imaginings of things that could go wrong in the portal cave that I forgot where I was, and I look up to see Celeste sitting down nearby. She and Guillermo must have just switched out up in the control room.

“Hey,” she says, then sees what I’m reading, and her expression softens. “That’s Cartwright’s report, isn’t it?”

I nod. “Bit scary, to be honest.”

“Yeah.” She’s quiet for a bit, and then adds, “I understand. Of course, we’ll do everything we can to figure that place out before you go in there – we’ve got better instruments this time around and are more prepared for what we’re facing. ”

“And… if we do figure it out, and it ends up being too dangerous?”

“That’s up to you. You can risk it, if you want, or you can stay here with us. Eventually we’ll all head home and maybe you can restart your life in this universe, if you’re unable to get back home to yours. I know it must sound terribly unappealing.”

“Not terribly. At least I’ve got some great friends here.” I smile at her, and she smiles back. “But,” I continue, “I guess I’ll just have to see how it goes when we get there.” That’s been the plan all along, and we’ll just stick to it. 

She nods, and is silent again until it’s clear the topic of Cartwright’s report has closed, and then she changes the subject. “How was being outside, floating out in space? Did you enjoy it?”

“I loved it,” I admit. “I wish we had hull maintenance all the time.”

“If you sabotage the outside of my ship just so you can go out there and fix it…” she begins in a mock-threatening tone, and I press my fingertips together and raise my eyebrows in what I imagine is a very villainous pose.

Celeste laughs loudly, and I laugh too – I guess I only looked villainous in my head. When she doesn’t stop, I playfully nudge her shoulder with mine. Patrick, still sitting over on my favourite chair, looks at our cosy position, and his eyes linger on Celeste’s and my shoulders, but then he refocuses his attention back on his watercolours. He’s been painting pictures of London and of various places he likes in the English countryside to have reminders of home; lately the pictures have been decorating all the corridors on the ship.

Perhaps Celeste has noticed Patrick’s eyes as well, because she sits up straighter, and asks him, “What are you painting over there?”

“The Thames,” says Patrick, then laughs. “Is that cliché?”

A loud laugh suddenly echoes through the corridors from the control room, followed by a whooping noise, and Celeste narrows her eyes, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the ladder. Then we feel the ship swerve sharply to the right. The control room is certainly never that wild when Celeste is piloting, and I can only imagine what Guillermo is up to. He’s like an overgrown child, even in his mid-to-late fifties.

Patrick sets down his watercolours and stands up, and Celeste and I follow his motion.

“Sounds like there’s something interesting to see up there,” says Patrick, and we all head out, just as Janice comes into the lounge with her knitting bag and snags the now-vacated best seat.

The three of us thunder up the stairs and into the control room, where Guillermo, Eric, and Louise are gathered. A large red sun takes up most of our view out the side and front windows – it’s impossibly close.

“Busted,” Eric stage-whispers to Guillermo, upon seeing Celeste in the doorway. But Celeste doesn’t look angry; rather, she just looks like she’s trying not to laugh.

“You trying to fly right into that thing?” Celeste asks, one eyebrow raised, but otherwise she is the picture of calm.

Guillermo looks bashful for a moment, but asks her, “Did you feel the effect of its gravity when we got so close?”

“I certainly did,” says Celeste, one corner of her mouth inching upwards in a smile.

“I thought you were going to panic more,” says Eric, relaxing, who was clearly braced for a stronger reaction from Celeste.

This brings a smile to Celeste’s face. “No, I knew we’d have to get quite close to this star; I plotted the course. I just didn’t think our trusty first mate would decide to experiment with centrifugal force.”

I’ve crept up towards the windows (which have a dark shade pulled over them, for the intensity of the light) to look out as the star passes behind us and then into darkness.

“Cool that you got to go outside,” says Patrick, who has appeared right beside me.

“Yeah. Have you gotten to do that at all?”

“No. But then again, I’m all right with not doing it. It’s safer in here.”

“Fair enough. That’s probably true.”

After a silence, Patrick adds in an undertone, “You know, it’s highly unprofessional to flirt with the captain.” He gives me a side-eye.

I wasn’t flirting with the captain. Only a little bit. Not really.

Okay, I was. But technically I don’t even work here, so professionalism isn’t really my concern.

Actually, that’s not true – I certainly don’t want to get Celeste into any trouble. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a crush on her.

I realise I still haven’t responded to Patrick, so I just shrug noncommittally as if I don’t know what he’s referring to. He’s one to talk about professional; I’ve seen him blatantly flirting with Alex loads of times. But Alex is more of an equal than a superior. For Merlin’s sake, I had to go weak in the knees over the _captain_. Of all people.

Perhaps, like Marta, I only want what I can never have. The difference is that whereas Marta moves on the minute someone becomes actually attainable, I know I wouldn’t. I like Celeste too much for that. She’s without a doubt my closest friend on the ship at this point, which says a lot because I’m close with everyone after several months living in a small space together, sharing all our meals and all our work and really our whole lives since the beginning of June.

Merlin, why am I still thinking about this? This is dangerous territory. So with all the excitement finished in the control room, I rush back to the galley to find other things to occupy my mind – it’s always easy to do that here, what with all the general things going on in this area. There’s music playing out of Alex’s magical speaker now, there’s a delicious spicy aroma coming from the stove, and in the adjacent lounge, Janice is teaching Lyle how to knit. As I walk in, Lyle proudly shows off the scarf he’s working on.

“Looks great,” I tell him honestly. It’s certainly a far cry from the mess it was this morning, when he’d dropped a few stitches and the thing looked like it’d been mauled by a bear.

“Thanks!” he says. “I’m really starting to get the hang of it now. Think I’ll make a scarf for everyone. It gets cold in space, you know.”

How typical of Lyle – going from knowing nothing about knitting, to planning to knit a scarf for everyone, within the space of about five hours. The thing is, he’s probably capable of it; as assistant cook, he’s found some interesting recipes he’s never made before and then tried them out on all of us to impressive result. He’s definitely made some quite fancy meals that I would never expect to be served in space.

Sometimes it seems everyone here has an artistic hobby, be it knitting, painting, or music (if the saw can be considered music). As I select a chair in the lounge, I briefly ponder taking up crocheting, or photography, or something. But I don’t consider it for too long, because I don’t really like those things, and instead I dig around in the shelf of books to find something to read.

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG_  
DAY 94  
8 SEPTEMBER 2032 

_Very little to report for today. Crew did a deep clean of the galley and lounge, and a routine test of laboratory equipment._

*

Time has gone by so _quickly_. I can’t believe the trip is almost three-quarters over.

I did end up deciding to try an artistic pursuit, even though I’d previously thought I was rubbish at art. I’ve borrowed one of the laboratory cameras from Sierra, and have been taking pictures every now and then, just documenting daily life on the ship. None of them are particularly artistic, I expect, but the final product will be: my plan is to make a scrapbook with all of the pictures and then leave it with the crew, since after October I’ll have no way to stay in touch, and I’d really like to be able to leave _something_ for them. So, scrapbooking it is. And, I’ve discovered, it’s actually quite fun.

It’s around midday, and I’m stalking around with Sierra’s camera, but few people seem to be around. Janice is up on the pilot’s chair today, so I snap a shot of her from behind, silhouetted in the lights from the chart table, just her head visible above the top of the tall chair. Even so, it’s easy to tell that it’s her in the picture, with knitting needles stuck into the bun in her graying brown hair.

I talk with Janice for a little while, and stare out the window (as I asked Fatima on the first day, this view still has not gotten old). And eventually I notice I’m a bit hungry, and since I expect Alex will be telling us all it’s lunch time pretty soon, I stow the camera in my quarters and then make my way towards the galley.

When I get there, I’m surprised to see nearly the whole crew already there, and looking at me, as if waiting for me to walk in. For a moment I’m bewildered, and then Alex walks in holding a cake, one lit candle standing in the middle of it.

Today is the eighth, I suddenly realise. I’d thought it was the seventh, so I wasn’t expecting this at all.

Alex begins to sing, and everyone else joins in: “Happy birthday to you…”

I can feel my face heating up at all the attention, but this time it’s kind of nice. It’s not the kind of intrusive attention you get as a celebrity, it’s the warm feeling of close friends showing their affection for you.

After everyone finishes singing (although not necessarily all at the same time, or in the same key), there’s some clapping and Sierra cheers.

“How old are you today?” asks Patrick.

“I’m twenty-five,” I respond.

“A quarter of a century,” says Guillermo unhelpfully. I roll my eyes, but it’s not like I can say anything smart back to him, as he’s the oldest of the crew, making jokes about how old I am, the youngest of the crew. Amidst the laughter, Alex slices up the cake, setting aside an extra large piece for me. And it’s delicious, a magnificent vanilla creation with a layer of sliced strawberries in the middle.

Lyle hands me a wrapped present, and I open it to find a soft knitted scarf in alternating stripes of bright blue, yellow, and orange. Lyle’s colour sense leaves something to be desired, but I’m so touched by how thoughtful it is that I instantly throw the scarf around my neck and give him a hug, grinning. “Thank you, I love it!”

Now that we’ve already had dessert (or are in the process of having it; Alex has gone to the control room to bring up a piece of cake for Janice, who couldn’t leave her post), it’s lunch time. I can’t say I mind the reversal of the order. But lunch of course is delicious too, a sort of primavera pasta in a creamy sauce (true, the vegetables were frozen for months before this, but considering the limitations of space it’s pretty damn good).

Dessert before a meal, thoughtful gifts, good food, and good company – I couldn’t ask for anything else. It’s true that this is the first birthday I’ve celebrated without Iris since I turned twelve, but as much as I miss her, it seems like that was a different life, so far away. The truth is that I feel as at home here as I ever did back in my real home.

*

At the very end of September, we receive a transmission back from Earth that contains new maps, some data to download, and some messages for the crew from family and friends back home, including a recording for Fatima from her husband wishing her a happy fortieth birthday, which was yesterday.

But all good things have to come to an end, eventually. In only two weeks, we’ll be there – landing on another planet. The crew will do the work they were sent to do on Balthazar, we’ll figure out the portal, and then I’ll go home.

At home, everything will seem so mundane again. I’ll be back to applying for jobs, a task I’m not particularly looking forward to – but now, I feel much more inspired to contribute to the world. I still haven’t entirely worked out what I want to do with my life, in terms of what sort of job I want. It’s true that this voyage has made me a lot more interested in space and in astronomy, but I was never that good at Astronomy at Hogwarts, and while it’s interesting, it’d still be far over my head. But one thing I know for certain is that I’m far more motivated to be an activist. If the press is going to be focusing on me when I return – after all, I’ve never been able to get them to stop – then I’m at least going to have it be on my terms, and make them listen to what I have to say. I’m going to do my best to make the world a better place.

I want to see a world in which obviously brilliant, driven people like Celeste don’t have to struggle through a system that silently discredits them because of their skin colour. Where someone’s worth isn’t determined by how famous their family is. Where people’s differences are celebrated. Where people aren’t assumed to be one thing or the other based on what they look like or what religion they follow. I want the world to be just like the community on board the _Daedalus_ – diverse, accepting, trusting, and unselfish. If I could, I’d take the whole crew back with me. But they belong here, so it’s my duty to bring what I’ve learnt and experienced here back to the world I left.

And along with the sadness I feel about leaving my second home and this crew I’ve come to call my family, I’m a little excited to see what I can do now, once I get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m sorry I am the slowest writer ever. But, if you’re still reading this, thanks for your patience! I’d love to know what you thought of the chapter!


	15. Tempus Fugit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I battle a centipede.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is for Chiara, of course. You are seriously the best. Thank you for all your continued support, and for being an amazing friend. *hugs***

_CAPTAIN’S LOG_  
_DAY 125_  
_9 OCTOBER 2032_

_We arrived at the research station on Balthazar at 17:09, or what is left of it: the station is extensively damaged. Initial assessments suggest that the destruction was a result of fire, but this needs further investigation, given that the low oxygen level in the planet’s atmosphere is somewhat unconducive to fire. Dust has blown into the station and piled up on much of the equipment. It will likely be some time before the station is repaired enough to use. In the meantime, the ship is stationed right outside it and is our only reliable means of shelter._

_One team has gone into the station, and another has gone into the nearby cave to investigate if it might hold any clues, as it is known to have had some sort of living organism in it before. Station Team (consisting of Janice, Eric, Lyle, and Sal) departed at 20:31, and Cave Team (Guillermo, Fatima, Sierra, and Louise) departed at 20:43._

*

I’m sitting in the control room with Celeste and Patrick. Celeste is monitoring two radios, ready to respond to the needs of either team. Alex is cooking, and Patrick is standing by in case anyone needs medical assistance, taking notes on what’s happening on the radio in case Celeste needs it later. Out the window is the surface of the planet Balthazar: dimly sunny, the ground covered with a thin layer of tiny purple plants. In the sky hang the pastel orbs of three other planets in Balthazar’s solar system. All is still.

Guillermo’s voice crackles through the room. “ _Daedalus_ , this is the A-Team, over.”

Celeste lets out a short laugh through her nose. “Cave Team, _Daedalus_ ,” she says loudly, rolling her eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Got something,” says Guillermo. “Near the planet display, two scraps of paper. But it’s too dark to read in here, and the cave sucks up the light from our torches and wands, so I can’t tell you what they are.”

“Any signs of life in there since your last check in?”

“No. Nothing. Apart from the papers, everything is what we expected.”

“All right. Bring your team back in and we’ll have a look at the papers.”

“Roger. On our way.”

Only a few minutes later, Janice reports in again too, saying that she and her team have determined that one room in the station is still usable if the door can be sealed better, and Celeste calls them back as well.

Not long after Janice’s team returns, we get another call on the radio.

“ _Daedalus_ , cave team,” says Guillermo quickly, and without even pausing for a confirmation or a breath, he continues. “It’s a note. This paper is a note. From the woman who disappeared last time. She’s alive.”

There is silence in the control room for a second, as we all look around at one another, and then the room erupts in conversation. And only a few minutes later Guillermo’s team returns, stampeding through the corridor and up the ladder into the control room (followed by Fatima, who enters at a reasonable pace, not barreling in like the rest of the team). Guillermo sets the two pages down on Celeste’s chart table, and she slides a mug of biros and a coffee-stained chart out of the way. Everyone clusters round the table, to have a look at the notes. Both of them contain the same message.

_To whomever finds this:  
My team was unable to fully decipher this module, but I can now confirm that it is indeed a three-dimensional map of space, and Cartwright and Yang’s theory about parallel universes was correct. I do not know how many universes it links to, but this one is different from the one we visited on our second exploration of the cave, so at least two. I predict that the dial next to the gem on the floor is what shifts through universes, like channels on a television._

_After an accident that transported me to an alternate universe during our voyage, years ago, I am now trapped. Luckily I ended up on the right planet, although out in the middle of the ocean. There are no means to return to the version of the universe I am from; the technology to transport across universes is still in early stages of research and development here, and is not safe enough to send people through. I have managed to contact people in the Ministry of Magic here, who tell me that some of the technology was stolen and may have resulted in the disappearance of a celebrity war hero’s daughter. Space travel has not been invented, and the Statute of Secrecy is still in place._

_I will keep trying with what I have, but I can only hope that one of these notes will reach its destination. If you get this, please let my family know that I am all right, and tell Neha and Surya that I love them._  
_Indira Agrawal  
Laboratory Co-Director,_ Intrepid VI _Voyage 2029_

*

I can’t help but feel a bond with Indira Agrawal, who as far as I know is the only person other than myself who has travelled between universes and become stranded. Only she’s gone to a world that’s technologically behind this one, and she has to wait for the technology to catch up. She’s already had to wait three years.

And then it hits me; the contents of the letter sink in. “Oh my god,” I whisper. “That’s me.”

Faces turn to look at me, and I elaborate, speaking over the racing of my heart. “That’s my universe, it’s got to be. I’m the one who disappeared. And…” I stop myself, but the thought continues silently in my mind: _I used that stolen technology_.

That means this note has to be quite recent. Indira Agrawal vanished three years ago, and these notes are from within the past five months. Maybe when I get back, I can get that cube out of my flat where I unintentionally left it behind, explain how I got it to work, and send her back to this universe, her home. Unless after three years she’s found herself a new home and community, as I did here?

But, I suppose, even if she did restart her life there and move on to something new, and even if she’s grown to love her new life, there will always be part of her that wants to go back, like there is for me.

I admit there have been times when I’ve considered just staying here. After I got on board the ship and was welcomed into such a warm community, the thought of leaving has made my heart sink. It’s not a decision I can make lightly; after all, it will impact two entire universes. (Maybe, if I’m still going by Lance’s theories months ago, it will create a new universe anyway.)

But ultimately, I belong back in the universe I left. I have more to contribute there, and all my family and friends will want to see me again and know that I am all right. They deserve that at the very least; they must all have been so worried.

The last few lines of Agrawal’s letter make me think of Mum and Dad, who lost so much during the war and were always so protective of me, only to lose me without a trace. My brothers, my cousins, flatmate, neighbour… there are a lot of people I left behind who care about me.

“Lily?” Celeste’s voice tugs me back to reality, and I remember that I stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

“That’s my way back,” I say, my voice still not much louder than a breath. It’s all so real now. I’m going home.

*

Someone rushes up the ladder and into the control room, footfalls loud on the metal steps, and then Fatima appears in the doorway. It’s very unlike her to be so boisterous; I was expecting someone else. And I certainly wasn’t anticipating her looking the way she does: her coveralls are torn at the right knee, and her hijab is partly undone and half off her head. Celeste shoves her captain’s log aside the instant she sees her, attentive at once.

“Captain, the station, there’s something wrong,” Fatima chokes out, breathing heavily; she must have sprinted here all the way from the station, and running can’t be easy in this low oxygen environment. “We found out what caused the damage. It wasn’t fire, it was huge insects. They look like… oversized centipedes. And they’re aggressive. We need help.”

“Where are the others?”

“Still there. They’re all right, for now. I had a clear exit and we had no way to communicate with you – our comm radio got broken, and we couldn’t get any Patronuses to materialise for some reason – so I came back to let you know. Janice and Alex were fighting them off with spells when I left, but Eric and Sierra can’t do magic and didn’t bring weapons with them.”

“I’ll radio our other team and send them over to help. And I’ll come back with you. We’re just going to get our people out of there, nothing more.”

Celeste stands up and tucks her wand up her sleeve, and as they’re about to leave I ask, “How can I help?”

“How is your defensive spellwork?” Celeste asks.

“I’m decent at it.”

“Then come along. We could use the extra hand.” And with that, we are out the door. Celeste radios Guillermo’s team and tells them to leave the cave and come help at the research station, and we hurry over.

This was not at all what I expected this morning to be; the crew had gone out to do a bit of work at the station and in the cave, and I’d just been tidying up my quarters and practising Conjuring Spells for floating rafts and Illuminating Spells for flares, in the event that I return to Earth in the middle of an ocean. I’ve little to pack; in the month before the voyage I acquired two new outfits and a toothbrush, and none of that is important. Everything I own is already waiting for me back at home. 

We reach the station about the same time as Guillermo, Louise, and Patrick; it’s a somewhat dilapidated but once-grand looking compound. Stray spells ricochet off the walls and through the air. It’s a bit surreal as we arrive and start to move on in; I’ve never done any real fighting in my life, but here I am, rushing into a building to engage in a battle with aliens on a planet in a foreign galaxy. And to think that five months ago I was just sitting around on a sofa moping about being unemployed. I really have gone places.

The interior of the station is a bit dusty from all the spells that have hit the walls. Janice and Alex are behind an overturned table, firing red Stunning Spells at six or seven enormous centipede-like animals – they must be three feet long. They’re kind of terrifying. (The only way they could be any worse is if they were moths; at least centipedes stay on the ground.) Every time one gets hit by a Stunner, it’s thrown back a few feet, and then keeps moving. I hate to think what would happen if they get too close.

The two Muggles are holding up all right considering they aren’t equipped to do much; Sierra is barely visible crouched inside a cabinet and wielding a small laboratory knife, and Eric is perched on top of a worktop, throwing bits of metal and wood that have fallen out of the disarticulated wall.

As we run in, I duck behind some more laboratory equipment and do my best to contribute; the din of spells grows with the other newcomers. Now outnumbering the centipedes, we seem to be winning, driving them back into a corner, until a hole opens in the floor where a spell hit. Through the dust suspended in the air, it’s hard to tell, but it looks like a tunnel. And it’s full of more centipedes.

“Sierra, Eric, run!” cries Celeste, holding off the nearest centipede, and Sierra leaps out of the cabinet, runs across the room, hurtles over a Stunned centipede, and reaches the relative safety of outside. Eric is soon to follow.

“Everyone else, let’s clear out.”

We back out of the room, those of us with the ability to do magic firing a few last spells, then Eric kicks another overturned table in the path of the centipedes, and we use the bought time to get out. It was a short skirmish – maybe a couple of minutes tops – but I’m overwhelmed and my heart will not stop racing.

Together we all head back to the ship, reliving the battle in its entirety in our conversation. Once we’re back on the ship, though, we all gather in the lounge and attempt to make some sense of it.

“You know, I don’t think they were necessarily out to kill us,” says Sierra, settling on the best chair. “I noticed something from where I was in that cabinet… the station must have been built on the nesting ground for these – things, these giant centipedes. They were trying to get us out of their home.”

“Aren’t they supposed to live in the cave?” I asked. For that has to be the source of the scurrying sounds the previous team heard there.

“Maybe some of them still do. There’s no telling how many there are,” says Sierra. Next to me, Alex shudders.

“I really picked a rubbish time to leave,” I say. “Shall I stick around and help you fight them off, and leave once it’s finished?”

“No,” says Guillermo. “The offer is kind, but we have no idea how long this is going to last, how long we will be dealing with them. And probably best to get to that cave before the centipedes move back in there.”

He has a good point. So I listen while the crew debates the merits of trying to oust the huge arthropods from the station, or attempting to build a new one entirely. After all, it’s not our planet, and the centipedes are the ones that really live here. But the team is entirely unequipped to construct an entire new research facility, even a small one.

The discussion lasts long into the afternoon, and is only broken up when Lyle and Alex have to start cooking dinner.

After my final dinner with this crew, it’s time to hand over the present I’ve spent the past few months working on. As I walk this familiar corridor through the ship from my small quarters into the lounge, months of sentimental photographs and memories tucked under my arm, I can’t help but think of how deeply I will miss this ship family. After I go, I will never see them again, and I doubt I’ll see their doubles back home.

Some of them are Muggles, so there’s no way our paths will cross, because of the Statute of Secrecy still in place and the tremendous gulf between Muggles and magical folks. And as for the magical people – who could possibly guess where they’d be working, since spaceships don’t exist there.

All I’ll have are the rich memories of my life here – something shared across universes, even if I’ll never be able to reminisce with my shipmates. I’d like to think that someday when I’m remembering this voyage, they’ll be remembering too, at the same time, even if impossibly far away, so far that we can’t even see the same stars.

“I have something for all of you,” I announce, my hands gripping my completed scrapbook behind my back.

“Is it fresh tomatoes?” asks Alex. “Because that’d be brilliant.”

“Hair clips? I’ve lost all of mine.”

“Tea?”

“ _Coffee?_ ”

“Sadly, no,” I reply with a laugh. “But it’ll last longer. Here.” And with that, I withdraw the scrapbook and place it on the table; everyone gathers around to get a look.

“Aww,” says Sierra, tracing a finger over the patchwork design on the cover, and then opening the book to the first page, where the crew picture we took last week is pasted over a letter I wrote to everyone.

There’s another chorus of ‘aww’s every now and then as they peruse their way through the book, and occasionally someone looks up at me to thank me or remark on a certain photograph. When the conversation devolves into an analysis of whether or not a certain photo proves that Patrick is the mysterious Phantom Coffee Spiller who’s eluded us these past four months and I stand momentarily forgotten, Celeste steps aside towards me. “This is lovely,” she says. “What a wonderful thing to do. We’ll treasure this.”

“Thanks,” I say. And suddenly it seems that the others have noticed that they abandoned me, and I’m bombarded with hugs and more thank-yous. I may not be leaving until tomorrow, but this is my goodbye.

After maybe a half hour more of hugs, at which point most of the crew have dispersed, Celeste asks me, “Have you had a chance to enjoy the view outside yet?”

I suppose she isn’t counting the time when I went outside to shoot spells at centipedes. “Not much,” I tell her, and together we head down the corridor, past a watercolour of London’s Big Ben clock tower and a wanted poster drawn in pencil that features a large question mark above the text _PHANTOM COFFEE SPILLER! Reward if identified: I will mend the holes in your socks (up to 5 pairs)_.

So we step out. It still seems weird to be out here without a helmet, especially after so long travelling through empty, airless outer space, but according to Celeste, the oxygen level on Balthazar is about what you’d get at the top of a high mountain on Earth: less than half the air we’re used to at sea level, but still just enough that we don’t need helmets. Otherwise, the atmosphere is similar enough to Earth’s, perhaps the reason that there is anything alive here at all.

There is no such thing as a true sunset on Balthazar, because the planet is tidally locked, always facing the same side towards the sun. But this is about as close as one can get; we’re in the area towards the end of the sun’s reach, with the sun permanently suspended low in the sky, bathing the planet in a red glow. It’s rather like an unending sunset, in fact, which I prefer more than a real one. And the light is dim enough that a few stars are visible as well.

“It’s beautiful out here,” says Celeste. As she stares off at the horizon, I conjure two chairs, right next to one another and facing the rosy mountains in the distance, and sit down. Celeste notices, smiles, and sits down beside me. Neither of us says another word; we just look out at the gorgeous landscape together, watching the small, swift moon glide along the horizon.

“I wish you could come with me,” I finally admit.

She nods slowly. “Part of me wishes I could go, too. But I have to stay, for the same reason that you’re going.”

“And I know you’re needed here. You’re important.”

“You’re important too, Lily.” She smiles, and I return it, feeling my face get warm. Then we go back to just looking out at the horizon. Celeste drapes her arm along the armrest of her chair, and I do the same with mine, such that our hands are touching. Her fingers sneak under my palm, which then scoots over on top of her hand. It’s almost like we’re teenagers, and I giggle aloud. Her musical laugh is soon to follow, as my fingers wind between hers.

“Find me on the other side, okay?” Celeste asks suddenly. “Assuming I exist there.”

“Of course.”

And I want to, so badly. I want her to exist there too, and maybe things will work out for us. But part of me doesn’t want to find her, because I’ll remember this beautiful night watching the stars with her, and all of the voyage we’ve spent together these past few months, but she won’t have shared that experience with me. I’ll be a stranger. I already went through this sort of thing once, meeting Lance, Marta, and Iris here and having them not know me, and I don’t know if I can handle it with Celeste too.

“What about you?” I ask. “Here?”

Her eyes bore into mine, and I wish I could read her thoughts, because her face betrays no hint of what she’s thinking. She eventually says, “I’ll keep busy. I have a spaceship to captain,” and smiles.

From what I’ve gathered about her while I’ve been here, Celeste’s driving force is her duty. She loves what she does, and she’s good at it, and she worked hard to get where she is. And she’s not the type to sit around pining over what could have been, even if it feels terribly unfair that I might see some version of her again and she’ll never see me. I guess I’ll never know. At least I am comforted by the fact that she will indeed be happy as she continues doing the work she loves.

“You’re the best spaceship captain I’ve ever met,” I tell her.

“Cheeky. I know I’m the only spaceship captain you’ve met.”

“Still the best.”

She laughs. We watch the moon sink below the horizon. “I guess this is it,” I say. “It’s weird to be leaving. This has been… amazing. Thank you for everything, for bringing me all the way here.”

“Of course,” she says. “It’s been wonderful having you here.”

“Good luck with… everything.”

Although our words seem to carry some weight of goodbye, neither of us gets up. Just like the sun which floats there without setting, we stay. There’s no reason not to. Eventually we get up out of our chairs and just walk, the leafy purple mosses crunching softly under our feet.

“Lily?” asks Celeste’s voice, just as we’re about to go in. “One last thing.”

I turn around.

“Now that you’re no longer one of my crew…” 

She steps closer, her face mere inches from mine, and I lean in. I’ve wanted to do this for months. Her lips are soft, the kiss sweet, lingering. When we separate, she smiles at me, her eyes twinkling with joy and perhaps a little mischief (after all, this was against policy for so long), and I smile back. And then our lips meet again, our arms wrap around one another as we wordlessly convey our affection. It should be a bittersweet moment, as we’re about to part ways forever, but I can’t even consider that at the moment; I’m too happy.

Normally, I’m not one for goodbyes. But this, kissing in the soft light of the perpetual sunset, isn’t bad for a goodbye. Not at all.

*

_CAPTAIN’S LOG_  
_DAY 127_  
_11 OCTOBER 2032_

_She disembarked safely. I was sorry to see her go; she had begun to seem like one of the crew. I think she was sorry to go, too: a lot of uncertainty awaits her at the other end. But she knew what she was getting into. Part of me wishes she was staying behind to keep our spirits up – or that we could go with her and avoid this war that’s started. But I know as well as she does what will happen if we all cross over with her. Lily tried to change history and see what could have been, and only burned in the end._

_Ship’s functions appear to be running as normal, but I sense that something is not right – like time is catching up with us and we are slowly disappearing. It is possible that this will all be erased and I will never remember this log entry._

*

Guillermo and I walk side by side into the cave. Celeste is still on board – as captain, she is most needed on the ship, and can’t be dispatched to various errands left and right; that’s the first mate’s job. She’s busy coordinating everything that’s going on at the research station and the ship right now, and part of my heart is back there with her. The whole morning has been goodbyes again, and now it’s time for me to go.

Once we step inside the cave, the dark is impenetrable. Our torches and my _Lumos_ spells do little; it’s like the meagre light from them gets swallowed by the darkness. So, hands extended in front of us, we descend a shallow slope, talking the whole way so we each have a reference of where the other is. After a minute or two, a green light is visible, and we head towards it. This is the gem, the portal I’ve read so much about.

We crouch down by the side of it, and in the light emanating from the floor I can sort of see Guillermo’s face, but only his chin and the left side of his face are illuminated and the rest is thrown into shadow, an effect as if he were trying to scare me on Halloween. Next to the green light is a panel, the one Agrawal said controls this thing. So I run my finger over it in a circle. The gem turns to purple, then orange, then yellow, and I stop. The light seems to fixate on me, and one of the lights in the display blinks: a specific planet.

Stepping back from the dial, I examine the planet more carefully, sixth in a line of planets closely orbiting a small sun. It’s not Earth.

“That’s Balthazar,” says Guillermo. “One moment…”

As he was one of the people driving the ship these past four months, constantly looking at charts of star locations, he knows his way around this area of the universe, and prods some of the dials on the panel. The planet dims and another one next to it brightens; the bright dot hops its way out of that solar system and makes its way back, I presume, to the one we’re most familiar with. I walk alongside the map as the destination planet moves. Eventually, Guillermo slows down and I squint at the display.

This luminous planet is one of nine in a solar system. One of the large ones has a big spot, several of the other planets appear to have rings, the seventh is tilted at ninety degrees, it all seems to be correct and familiar. Only it’s the second planet from the sun that’s blinking, not the third.

“I’m tired of this dial. How about Venus instead?” Guillermo jokes.

We both laugh, and Guillermo hits the dial one more time. Earth.

He steps back, and we take a moment to admire the display. It really is beautiful. And now that we’ve figured it out, with the help of Agrawal, who’s to say where this could lead humankind in the future? It’s an incredible creation. And I can’t help but wonder who made it. How advanced are this planet’s centipedes, really? I suppose they could build a lot with so many arms.

Suddenly, the air feels stiller than before, stagnant, stopped. There is no sound. It wasn’t even loud or windy in here before, and I have no way to explain what it is, but I just have this foreboding sense that something weird is happening.

Uncertainly, I look up at Guillermo to see if he has noticed anything or if my mind is playing tricks on me. In the yellow glow from the module, the lines on his face are harder, his dark eyebrows knitted together. His eyes meet mine, and I can tell he’s sensed it too. What it is that we’ve sensed, I’ve no idea. But something.

And that’s when I notice it: I can see through him. Just barely, faintly. But the glowing yellow planet model directly behind him is shining through his neck.

Wordlessly, I just point. I can feel my mouth hanging open, but I have nothing to say.

His eyes lock onto my hand in front of him, and I can see reflected in his face the same expression I know must be on my own. It’s pure terror. Slowly, I slide my gaze down onto my own hand, and my heart feels another jolt. My hand is becoming transparent as well.

Panic grows inside me, and I reach out towards Guillermo, just because I need something to hold on to, something that feels solid. And thankfully, he does. My fingers grasp onto the sleeve of his shirt. But he is disappearing. Even the darkness starts to fade around us, as if it is an entity as well; I begin to see the research station in the distance outside the cave, and it is almost gone, invisible. And I can’t be sure, but it seems like there are significantly fewer stars than there were earlier today. Guillermo’s hands grip onto my forearms and we just stand there clinging to each other, the only things that feel real in a world that is disappearing, watching it all crumble just outside the entrance to the cave.

Moving along the horizon towards us is a sort of shimmery wave, like heat rising off pavement on a hot day. But it’s sweeping in towards the station like a riptide, and then the station vanishes, it’s gone, as if it never existed in the first place. No rubble, just nothing.

“Run,” Guillermo breathes, his eyes still fixed on where the station used to be. I nod, but remain in place. “Run!” he repeats, this time a shout, and I finally let go of him as he pushes me towards the yellow gem. “Now! Jump! Get out of here!”

Without another thought, I bolt towards the glowing jewel, barely able to see my path despite the lit globes surrounding me, but propelled onwards by the knowledge that everything behind me is being erased. Gasping for breath in the thin air, I collapse on the flat, glowing crystal inset in the ground, holding onto it the way I held onto Guillermo less than ten seconds ago. And then the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: The chapter title is Latin for ‘time escapes/flees’, or as more generally translated, ‘time flies’.**
> 
> **How’s that for a place to end the chapter? It was about time for another cliff-hanger… *evil laugh***
> 
> **Disclaimers: Universal Television, not me, owns The A-Team.**


	16. Meanwhile...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marta meets a new friend.

Sunday, 10 October 2032  
Earth

There is an article in this morning’s _Daily Prophet_ reporting that the spaceship _Daedalus_ with all its scientists and important people has finally reached its destination galaxies away, after a four-month flight. Marta Zalinski scans the article with a combination of interest and bitterness, and then chucks the paper in the bin. She scowls as she extinguishes her cigarette and drops it in the bin as well.

She could have been on that ship, too. She’d been so close to a way out, to a different life. But that selfish bitch Lily didn’t care; she just wanted to help herself, even after all Marta did to get her out of that government facility. Lily had said it had to be that way because she’d made mistakes. But everyone makes mistakes – what made Lily’s mistakes so much nobler and worthier and entitled her to hitch a ride on a spaceship?

Sighing heavily, Marta opens her refrigerator with a sharp tug. The door sticks, but another pull pries it open, and vacant shelves glare back at her. There’s half a red onion, a block of cheese, and a half-full carton of milk, the purchase date of which she doesn’t remember. And a leftover burrito in a takeaway box, which she bought after her shift at work last night. It’s by far the most appealing food she has, so she grabs it out and heats the burrito with a quick Warming Charm.

After eating, she crosses to the far corner of her one-room flat and collects some art she’s done over the past week, setting the larger pieces next to the door, and the small items next to them in a bag. Then she hunts through a cabinet for the last of her Euphoria Elixir – she’ll have to brew more as soon as she can get her hands on more fresh peppermint. She drains the small vial and leaves it on the worktop, and then crosses back towards the door to collect her art. She picks up as many of her art pieces as she can carry and Levitates the rest in front of her as she exits the flat, crosses the street, and goes down a few blocks where she sets up shop, her paintings and welded sculptures the brightest spots in an otherwise drab street on an overcast day.

A couple and their two children walk by on their way home from church; the daughter seems very interested in one of the smaller sculptures and begs her dads to buy her one. Marta makes small talk with the family for a few minutes, they end up buying some wall art, and then they leave.

The next few hours are more of the same, except after a while the Euphoria Elixir begins wearing off and Marta’s patience dwindles. As much as she has tried to avoid thinking about it all day, the spaceship is still in the back of her mind, and throughout the day the occasional visitor to her art stall is still discussing the newsworthy landing. It seems the universe is determined to remind her that she can’t escape her current life.

Perhaps it’s the hanging cloud of that news article that prompts her to try again today. Or maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t work at the club on Sundays. But she decides that today is the day; she’s going back to the Ministry of Magic for another attempt at accessing their secret projects. If she can’t find another means of escape, she will at least be able to find some material for blackmail, and if nothing else, at least an adventure.

She takes down her art tent in the early evening and brings it back to her flat, eats some of the cheese in the refrigerator, and then dresses in a dark, nondescript outfit ideal for sneaking into government buildings. A series of Colour-Changing Charms turns her hair auburn just in case she does happen to be spotted. In a whirl, she Apparates just outside the visitor entrance, and before heading in, she puts a strong Disillusionment Charm on herself.

Since the Muggle visitor entrance is closed at this hour on a Sunday, she unlocks it with an _Alohomora_. Just before heading in, she draws up a vortex of wind that picks up a few of the early leaves that have already fallen. With this as her cover, she slips in through the door, letting in a powerful wind gust from outside.

The interior of the Ministry is dim, and a surprised security guard looks up from the desk towards the entrance door, which to him appears to have been opened by the wind. He leaves his post behind the desk and goes to close the door, while Marta ducks behind a column, her Disillusionment Charm helping her melt into the surroundings. The guard shuts the door, looks around, locks the door, and heads back to his post. As he walks, Marta removes her boots, drowning out the sound of the zipper underneath the thuds of the security guard’s footfalls. Once the guard has sat back in his seat, upright and alert, Marta tiptoes on silent, sock-clad feet past the desk and towards the lift, carrying her shoes in her hand.

Unfortunately, she can’t use the lift while the guard is still there, because she knows the lift to be quite loud, especially in an empty Ministry atrium. So she sits beside it, waiting for the guard to either leave or fall asleep, or for someone else to use the lift. And after twenty minutes, groaning metal indicates the lift is on its way up from one of the lower floors. A woman gets out, and Marta invisibly slides past her, closes the lift doors, and punches the button for level number nine.

The lift clanks and rattles as she descends further into the depths of the Ministry, and the gleaming marble of higher floors gives way to the dark gloom of Level Nine, where an empty corridor leads to a plain black door. Once inside the door, the polished floors resemble a serene lake at night; the walls dark and far away and only lit by globes of blue light, as if she’s in space. There are several doors set into the wall of this circular room.

She turns to the next door to the right, pauses outside it, and then passes by – that’s the door with the glittery interior, not where she wants to go. The second door leads to the offices. This much she knows from her last stealthy visit, which was cut short when an alarm went off and sent her running.

But this time she knows to avoid the glittery room and she has seen the corridor to the offices. And she knows how the circular room tries to trick people. Confidently, she tiptoes up to the second door, rests her hand on it, and then retracts her arm. It may be after-hours and a weekend, but what if someone is there anyway? She can’t just walk in. Instead, she knocks – if no-one answers, then she’s safe to walk in.

But a voice comes from the other side of the door. “Nobody in here but the Ministry’s most unwanted.” And then a quiet laugh.

Quickly, Marta spins on her heel and walks away, slipping into a dark alcove between two doors when she hears a door open across the room. She puts another Disillusionment Charm on herself just in case the first one has begun to wear off, and waits.

A woman walks out of one of the doors, leaving it open behind her, and then hurries towards the door opposite her, the one where Marta entered the room. As the second door closes behind the Ministry employee, the first one slams as well, and the room begins to spin. Marta closes her eyes to avoid the dizzying sensation, but when it stops, she opens them again, safe in the knowledge that she is in the same alcove between the same two doors she was before, even if the whole room has rotated.

The door Marta had knocked on opens next, and a face peers out. It’s the same person who came into the club with Lily months ago, the half-Chinese bloke, but he doesn’t see Marta tucked away in the dark alcove. “Hello?” he asks, looking out and around the door. “Did someone just knock?” But eventually he just shakes his head in confusion and withdraws back inside the room. Marta allows herself to breathe again.

It’s another half hour before the bloke finally leaves, and Marta is rewarded for her patience; she enters the room, and it’s empty of people. Instead, she sees desks piled with stacks of parchment, odd artefacts on shelves, a globe pulsing with light in the centre of the offices. She begins with the closest desk.

The first desk is covered with papers listing Crumple-Horned Snorkack sightings. Marta moves on. The second desk has a large, three-dimensional model of DNA with red flags at certain points; a thick volume on the desk features the title _Inheritance Mechanisms of Magic: A Theory_. Again, she presses forward. It’s when she finds a door leading off the offices on the left that she feels she’s getting close, because the most secret things would be the most hidden. Close to what, she’s not sure, but when she finds it, she’ll know.

Inside this room is a collection of tiaras on a shelf, unadorned and quite boring-looking if it weren’t for the notes written in the folder beside them:

_TT PROTOTYPE_

TT for Time Travel, perhaps, based on what follows in the file. Marta sifts through the papers, skipping through the pages of formulae she doesn’t understand, and focusing all her attention on the description of where the idea came from: apparently Lily had described it to the workers at the Ministry before she left: what sensation a user might feel upon using the device, what the preliminary trials of their device have produced.

_Trial with Pumpkin, 29.09.2032  
M. Zhou_

_L. Pritchard reported noticing that the Device had disappeared at 09:33 this morning. Then at 09:34, he saw the Device wrapped around a pumpkin on top of his desk. At 11:33, the Device was turned twice and placed around a small pumpkin, upon which the Device and the pumpkin both disappeared. Mr Pritchard’s memory of the pumpkin appearing at 09:34 is unchanged._

_Likely explanations:_  
_(1) The time travel device is fully functional and sent the pumpkin back two hours.  
(2) The time travel device is partly functional, having transported the pumpkin elsewhere in time, but another use of the device is what actually sent it to 09:34 on 29.09.2032._

_More trials are necessary._

This is it, then. They’ve successfully invented time travel, with help from Lily. And what a perfect escape – it’s the opportunity Marta has always dreamed of, of being able to reinvent herself in a new time and place. The only problem is it seems the time travel diadem is a bit unpredictable.

But Marta is fine with unpredictable. So she picks up one of the diadems, and places it on her head. Unfortunately, nothing happens.

Frowning, she flips through pages in the file again, and notices that the device must be rotated. She turns it around on her head, and still nothing. Finally, she takes it off her head and puts it over the end of her hand instead, hanging it from her fingers. She traces a circle in the air with her hand, spinning the diadem around her wrist, and with enough encouragement it spins on its own, like a hula hoop. After she has decided it’s spun enough times, she replaces it on her head and closes her eyes.

When she opens them, she is standing in a meadow.

*

This is not London, it can’t be. Or if it is, it’s got to be hundreds of years ago, if that’s even possible. But perhaps this is one of the unpredictable qualities of the time travel device prototype: maybe it doesn’t maintain your location when it sends you back in time. Whatever the case, Marta’s surroundings are entirely new.

A small stone house is visible in the distance, and Marta makes her way across the field to have a look. Along the way she passes a stable with three horses in it, and, closer to the house, a clothesline strung up between two oaks. The garments pinned onto it give her the first clue as to when she has landed in time; the women’s clothing on the line are all dresses and skirts, long and straight with low waistlines. Must be a long time ago.

The house is very clean inside, she notices as she peers into the window. Inside the one room that’s visible from here, there is a table supporting an odd contraption with a flat turntable and curved metal horn coming out the top of it, something she’s pretty sure Muggles once used to play recorded music. Neat patterned curtains line the windows. Outside, an elegant, old-looking motorcar is parked, another indication that the people who live here are probably Muggles.

She hears a voice from inside, and ducks down into the shrub outside the window. Then some laughter, which is good – it means they haven’t spotted her and are well distracted. The voices sound like Northerners, she decides after listening more intently outside the window; if she had to guess, she’d say Yorkshire.

Her heart leaps into her throat when the voices grow louder; on the other side of the house, the people have exited through the front door. Marta crouches deeper in the hedge and watches through the leaves as the family piles into their shiny automobile and drives off. There are five of them: a man, a woman, and three children, all quite well dressed for whatever occasion they’re heading off to.

After they are gone, Marta raises her head again and looks into the house, which is now silent. She extracts herself from the hedge, walks around the corner to the front, and lets herself in.

A lovely red cloche hat hangs on a rack by the door; she picks it up and tries it on, admiring her reflection in the mirror. She feels the soft rug underfoot, trails her hand along the upholstered mahogany furniture. A newspaper sits on an accent table by the sofa, and none of the pictures move. But then she sees the date at the top: _2 September, 1925_. It was one thing to have a vague guess as to the era, but now with confirmation of it, an exact point in history, she trills with energy. Well, the twenties were said to be rather exciting, weren’t they?

With renewed desire for adventure, she leaves the house, shutting the door behind her but keeping the hat. As she passes by the clothesline again, she snatches a straight, knee-length shift dress of a silky fabric, then changes her clothes behind the hedgerow. Her dark leather jacket and jeans are stashed in a pile under the hedge. Finally, Marta visits the stable to liberate a grey horse, and then sets off towards her future in the past, on horseback down the dirt lane that runs alongside the meadow. She is a new person. 

She rides for maybe a mile or two, admiring the tiny hamlet in the valley before her, the little houses like specks against the green backdrop. This area in her day is probably much more developed and industrialized, but here and now, time hasn’t passed.

At this point, she hears the clop of hooves and turns to see a young man on horseback coming her direction, dark-haired and well-dressed. She can smell money from a mile off. Purposefully, she pastes a wide smile on her face, tosses her hair (as best as she can despite the hat), and turns her horse in his direction.

“Morning,” she says, and then wonders if it is indeed morning.

“Good morning,” says the man, and returns Marta’s smile as he pulls his chestnut horse to a halt beside her. “Beautiful day for a ride, is it not?”

“Absolutely. The country air is good for the soul.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks. “You sound like a Londoner!”

Marta laughs loudly. “I am from London,” she confirms. Close enough. “I’m up here visiting a friend, and I may just end up staying, I love it so much.”

“How thrilling. I’ve never been to London myself, but I hope to someday. Have you been here before?”

“Never.”

“Well, if you’d like someone to show you around, I’d be glad. My name’s Tom, by the way.” He holds out his hand for her to shake.

“Oh, would you? And I’m Cecilia,” Marta invents, and shakes his hand. After all, if she’s a new person, she needs a new name.

And so together they comfortably trot down the narrow country lane beneath the cloudless sky, and the hedgerows become more gnarled and overgrown as they continue down the hill. The wide expanse of the valley below continues to draw Marta’s eye, and Tom notices. It turns out that Marta’s first impression of Tom’s affluence is correct; apparently his father owns a vast expanse of land in the valley. Tom is certainly going to be a valuable friend here.

As they pass the intersection towards another small village, the valley ducks out of view behind the now quite unkempt hedgerow, and a decaying wooden building is just visible through a thicket of trees and bramble.

 _“My God, what an eyesore!”_ Marta exclaims. _“Couldn’t your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?”_

Tom shakes his head. _“It’s not ours,”_ he says, and proceeds to explain that although the land across the valley belongs to his family, the old cottage before them is owned by an old tramp named Gaunt with a mad son.

As Tom’s attention is occupied by the dilapidated cabin, an overhanging branch from the nearby hedgerow hits him in the face, and Marta giggles. But her laugh is cut short when she sees the door of the house.

_“Tom, I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?”_

_“Good lord, you’re right! That’ll be the son. I told you he’s not right in the head. Don’t look at it, Cecilia, darling.”_

But Marta can’t tear her eyes away. When an eerie rasping noise emanates from the house, she slows down her horse to listen better; it almost sounds like a snake, but that snake is clearly dead. Beside her, Tom stops as well and watches her, bewildered.

Indistinct shouts from inside the house pierce the air, as well as the clattering of possibly some furniture toppling over. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man rushes into the path, arms held protectively over his head, his frock coat flapping behind him to display the odd striped bathing costume he is wearing underneath. The sight is in such opposition to what Marta expected from this place, that when the man collides with Tom’s chestnut horse, Marta can’t keep herself from erupting into laugher, and Tom joins in.

After stuttering a hurried and distracted apology, the man keeps running in the direction Marta and Tom came from, and, still laughing, the pair continues walking towards the town of Little Hangleton. Marta’s first hour here in the past has been a dream come true, and she can’t wait to see what else unfolds. For the first time in a long while, she feels an extraordinary zest for life and for all the adventures ahead of her as she leaves the future behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: I realise it’s quite unconventional to do an alternate POV chapter in the middle of an otherwise first-person story, but there was no other way. And this story was never conventional to begin with. Besides, isn’t this canon twist fun? (…Don’t answer that.)**
> 
> **I do really value your opinions though, and would love to hear what you think about this chapter, or the story as a whole! Thank you for reading!**
> 
> **Disclaimers: All italicised dialogue (and the entire scene it’s featured in) is from _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ , chapter 10, ‘The House of Gaunt’. JKR owns it, not me.**
> 
> **And the line ‘Nobody down here but the [Ministry’s] most unwanted’ is adapted from a similar line in the pilot episode of The X-Files (and belongs to Chris Carter/1013 Productions). I couldn’t help it. Not only would Lance love that series because he’s a big nerd, but the Department of Mysteries is totally where the wizarding world’s conspiracy/alien hunters would work, amirite? :P**


	17. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I accidentally sit on kitchen utensils.

I blink and shake my head, getting the brown strands of hair out of my eyes, and then push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. For some reason, I’m sitting on the wooden floor of the kitchen, leaning up against the cabinet under the sink; I suppose I must have fallen asleep, because my new dress robes from Gladrags are no longer draped over the chair. A glance at my watch reveals that it has stopped – what a piece of rubbish – so I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, but still I can’t believe the nerve of Iris, moving my robes off the chair while leaving me to my embarrassing kip on the hard floor. She’ll probably never believe me when I tell her in all honesty that I haven’t had a drop of alcohol today. The only thing I can say for myself is that at least I was not drooling.

“Iris, how could you let me sleep on the floor?” I shout to the flat at large as I stand up.

That’s when I notice that the place looks very different. There’s an orange plushy toy hippo on the floor, as well as some dolls, a small red trainer, and bits of Weetabix. Crayon marks line the yellow kitchen wall. It’s as if someone let a toddler loose in here. I don’t recall Iris saying she was child-minding for anyone today, but surely I _can’t_ have slept through something like _that?_ What happened in here?

“Lily?” asks Iris’ voice, a hushed, timid whisper, and she comes into view around the corner of the living room, her eyes fixed intensely on mine. “Is that really you?”

She looks different too; she’s put on a stone or two, her auburn hair is cut short, and there’s something about her face that somehow seems… older. She can’t have done all of this since she got off work today – it can’t have been more than a few hours. I’m very confused, and starting to worry a little.

“Iris, what’s going on? Of course it’s me. What happened to our flat?”

She continues to stare at me, shaking her head slightly as if in shock. “What… what happened to the flat? _Four years_ happened, Lily – where have you _been?_ We were so worried!” And with that, she rushes towards me and envelops me in a tight hug.

The hug is nice, but I wriggle out of it after a moment, because things just do not add up. “How could four years have happened?” I ask. “I haven’t been anywhere. I was right there.” I point to the floor at the base of the sink.

Iris’ green eyes are full of tears. “No, Lily, you’ve been gone for years. You just disappeared one day and there were loads of people trying to find you – your father had several of the Aurors trying to track you, and no one ever came up with anything. Owls never found you; it was like you’d just vanished completely. Do you not remember the past four years at all?”

All I can do is shake my head, and then I reach out towards one of the kitchen chairs and sink into it, just because I don’t trust my legs to hold me up anymore. Four years? How can I not remember four whole years? A horrible thought comes to me about a story Mum told once, about how she was possessed by Voldemort for a significant portion of her first year at Hogwarts. But she described it as only having a few blanks in her memory – otherwise she remembers that year. What does a four year gap of absolutely nothing mean? Aliens?

“Lance thinks you went to a parallel universe,” Iris continues. “I found a metal cube in the flat the day after you disappeared, and it was the only clue we had – Lance recognised it. Do you remember anything about a cube?”

I’m not sure what to say, because it was stolen, and how much has everyone already figured out about how it ended up here? Besides, I used it to go to one parallel universe, and I remember all ten minutes of that, seeing the world where Anna and I were still together. If I did use the cube again, why can’t I remember?

I suddenly realise how uncomfortable the chair is, and find that I’m sitting on a spoon, which I place on the table with a questioning look at Iris. It’s absolutely not like her to keep our flat so messy. But my answer comes shortly, not from Iris, but from down the hallway.

“Mummyyy!” wails a high-pitched voice, and Iris gives me a quick, apologetic glance and rushes out of the room towards my bedroom. But I can see the door of the room from here, and the walls have been repainted, there’s a crib instead of my bed —

It’s been nearly four years since this morning. And now, Iris has a daughter. A daughter who lives in the room that used to be mine.

I can hear Iris soothing her daughter, talking softly to her, and the crying stops; I wish she could soothe me instead; I’m so confused and lost. So I just rest my forehead on the kitchen table and put my hands over my head, as if hiding from this confusion will make it all go away.

But I sit back up again when Iris eventually returns, carrying a fidgety, tiny person in her arms. “Lily, this is Hyacinth.”

I gape at her, try to smile, and fail. “Hyacinth?”

“Hyacinth Isabelle Henley-Thomas,” says Iris.

“Her name is bigger than she is!” I exclaim. It’s all I can think of to say.

“Just imagine if we’d used Julian’s full surname,” Iris adds. “Then she’d be Hyacinth Isabelle Henley-Thomas-Finnegan. Anyway, we just call her Izzy.”

I’m still not sure what to say, but Iris smiles hesitantly and continues, which I’m thankful for. Because for the first time in our friendship, the silences are awkward. “With you gone… I wanted to name her after you, but then I figured you wouldn’t have liked it. I knew how you were about being named after your grandmother. So this was my way of honouring you without naming her Lily – I know how much you disliked the name. Julian took a bit of convincing; he liked more conventional names, but he did appreciate the sentiment behind it. Oh, Lily, we’ve both missed you so much – I can’t believe you’re here again, and I’m so glad you’re all right!”

I’m completely speechless, and merely watch Izzy, who is far less shocked about the situation than I. “Hi,” she says, then shyly turns back towards Iris and leaves me with just a view of the back of her dark, curly head.

“Hi,” I finally respond.

“Sometimes she’s shy around str—people she doesn’t know,” Iris explains, and bends down to set Izzy on her feet on the floor. Izzy runs off into the living room and rolls around on the rug, and Iris’ eyes follow her as I continue to sit there at the table.

She caught herself in time, but she was about to say stranger and I know it. I’m a stranger. I can’t help but feel as if I’ve lost Iris, as if I’ve been replaced in her life. Her life has moved on, so suddenly to me; and my life, while it was always a bit slow after leaving Hogwarts, is now the epitome of stagnant as I apparently just disappeared for years while the world turned, and am still the same person I was four years ago. The most important people in Iris’ world, now, are Izzy and Julian. Not her long-lost best friend and former loser flatmate. I wish I could be happier for Iris, but I find I’m too selfish to do so, and all I can think about is how much I’ve suddenly lost that I took for granted as recently as this morning.

Iris has noticed that my eyes keep drifting to my old bedroom, which is now Izzy’s, and begins to explain. “You, er, well, since you’d disappeared, eventually Julian moved in and we’ve been living together ever since. We held off our wedding because I wanted you to be there, so we kept waiting and hoping you’d come back, but then I got pregnant, and Julian and I had to prepare for having a baby instead of planning a wedding. We still haven’t married yet, but we’re in no rush now. We may never get married after all.”

I’m still not that happy for Iris, but now I feel horribly guilty about it, because clearly she still does care a lot about me if she held off her wedding waiting for me. But it’s all so strange. I remember Iris eagerly devouring a heap of bridal magazines like it was only yesterday, and now she can’t be arsed about a wedding.

“Well, if or when you do get married, I can be there now,” I say, in an attempt to lighten the mood and fill another silence, and she smiles.

“Do you want tea?” Iris asks, and while I appreciate it, it only makes me feel even more like a guest in my own house. This isn’t even my own house anymore. Where am I going to live?

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“God, I’m so sorry, this must all be so confusing for you,” Iris says as she waves her wand at the kettle. She shakes her head. “I can’t even imagine. So much has changed. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make it easier.”

“What else has changed?” I ask tentatively. Surely Iris’ new life has to be the biggest change? But if it really has been four years… well, a lot can happen in that amount of time; I was certainly a very different person at twenty than I am today. And Iris… she must be twenty-eight now? Probably, although it depends on the time of year. In hopes for a clue, I glance towards the window, but all I see is grey clouds, which here in England could be any time of year.

Iris shakes her head. “Well, er, mostly just small things, but added up it’s probably quite different, you know? Let’s see…”

“Are you still working at the same Magi-vet clinic?”

A dark flicker passes across Iris’ eyes, and even after this long a separation from her I can still read her emotions, which is comforting. There’s some sort of bitterness evident in her eyes, and I wonder if I’ve touched on a sore spot, but Iris answers. “Yeah. I’m probably going to leave sometime soon, though – I’m fed up with it. I was on track for a promotion until I told them I was pregnant, and then they offered the promotion to a man instead, like he was a better investment because he wouldn’t be taking leave to have a baby. It’s rubbish and it’s not fair. So I’m looking around at other clinics that are less sexist.”

“Ugh, that’s totally unfair,” I sympathise. “You’ll be happier somewhere else anyway, in that case – if you go someplace where they appreciate you like they should.”

Iris smiles. “Lily, I really have missed you. So much. It’s wonderful to have you back.”

“What month is it?” I ask suddenly.

“It’s the end of August. Year 2036.”

Just over four years, then. Last I knew, it was May.

Iris frowns in thought for a moment, and then says, “Your birthday is next week.”

She looks like she’s not really sure what to do with that fact, and the information is puzzling to me too, probably for the same reason – how old will I be? Did I age during those four years or was I just gone, nonexistent, only to reappear just now? Am I turning twenty-five or twenty-nine? It’s just a number, but I can’t imagine not knowing.

“Do I look older than when I left?” I press.

“Well, no,” says Iris, “but… you know, it’s been so long, and after that many years the details get a bit less crisp, so it’s hard to say. But you look just like all of the most recent photos I have of you.”

“So… so I’m younger than you now.”

There’s a silence, and then we both burst out laughing, because at this point we’re just not sure how else to react. Everything is too strange. And then we can’t stop laughing; tears are running down Iris’ face, and I slide out of my chair and onto the floor. Our giggle fest is so out of control that it even brings Izzy toddling back from the living room to investigate. Everything is still unbelievably screwed up in so many ways, but at least I know it’s going to be okay.

*

“I suppose at some point we should let people know you’re back,” says Iris, after we’ve had our tea (due to the long time we spent laughing on the floor, the water got cold and we had to boil it again) and have calmed down somewhat. “You must want to see your family?”

To be honest, I feel like I just saw them. But I know that to them it’s been years. Of course they’re going to want to see me. All of them will, aunts and uncles and cousins. All twenty-six at one time, probably. And I do want all of them to know I’m all right. But after this much of a shock today, finding my whole life uprooted and everything so different, I don’t know that I have the emotional energy to answer the questions of any family members right now; they care so much that it can be overwhelming at times. “I think I’ll send Mum and Dad an owl and see them tomorrow. Is that horrible of me?”

Iris laughs. “I can’t blame you. You have a big, curious, loud family, and you’re an introvert. I’ll get you a piece of parchment and you can borrow our owl.”

“Thanks.”

I write a rather long note to Mum and Dad, telling them that I’m back, I’m all right, but I don’t remember the past four years and I’d love to see them tomorrow, and send Iris’ and Julian’s owl out with the scroll.

After we’ve watched the letter vanish out of sight in the distance, Iris says, “I bet Lance is home from work by now. He still lives across the hall. I’m sure he’d love to know you’re back too, if you decide you’re up to seeing more people today.”

“That sounds great,” I reply instinctively, because I always like to see Lance, but then I feel a weight in my chest as once again I wonder how much he knows about how the cube ended up in my flat. Clearly, he knows I once had possession of it. And it was stolen from his office. Things might get weird.

Iris must have noticed my momentary hesitation, because she stops in the process of grabbing her bag off the hook on the door.

“Is he going to hate me?” I ask in a small voice.

Iris shakes her head, sighs, and sets her bag down on the end table by the sofa. “No, he won’t. But… now that I think about it, a lot has happened since you left that you should probably know about before we head over there.”

That sounds so ominous, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. “Okay…”

“So, that cube I found in the flat… it turns out it belonged to Lance and his coworkers in the Ministry.” She pauses for a moment to look up at me, waiting for a response, and I decide to just be honest.

“I know,” I tell my feet heavily. “I didn’t steal it, but I used it. Only once, for about ten minutes. It sent me to a fantasy world of what-ifs. A parallel universe, I guess. I should never have done it, I knew it was stolen.”

Iris is unsurprised. “Do you know who stole it?”

I fidget with my sleeve. I know I decided on honesty less than a minute ago, but part of me feels I need to protect Marta, and I struggle for a moment before Iris tells me, “You can say it. You don’t need to protect her; she didn’t protect you either when she was questioned.”

“What?”

“Marta stole it,” says Iris. “I know. And at first, when she was being questioned about your disappearance and the cube had just been found in the flat, she said she knew nothing about it; an absent person is the easiest to blame.”

Utterly speechless, I just gape at Iris; I’ve never felt so let down in my life. Certainly Marta has never been the most trustworthy or moral person, but I’d grown to believe that she had my back when it really mattered; she’s one of my best friends. And she sold me out, selfish as ever. I know I’m not entirely innocent in the whole situation. But that doesn’t excuse it, and I can’t help feeling a wave of fury, half at Marta and half at myself. My hand suddenly hurts and I look down to see my fists are clenched.

“It was a rubbish thing to do,” says Iris in the understatement of the year. “But you know her, she always acts first without considering how it will affect anyone, and thinks later. So eventually she felt terrible about it and confessed to the Aurors that she’d stolen it. Then she went to Azkaban for eight months, and Lance got suspended from his job for negligence.”

My head sinks into my hands as my anger fades into guilt. I may not have stolen the cube, but all this ultimately happened to my friends because of me, and that knowledge is a hundred-tonne weight on my shoulders. “Is Marta all right now? Did Lance get his job back?”

“Well, he spent a year working at his mum’s Chinese restaurant, but managed to get his job back in the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries because his coworkers gave him glowing recommendations. He’s always been phenomenal there, and ultimately it’s not his fault his office got robbed.”

“He worked at the restaurant? But Lance is the worst cook ever!” are the words that finally come out of my mouth.

“He learnt a thing or two there,” says Iris, and then adds with a wry smile, “But he mostly did a lot of washing up.”

I’m transported back to better times, to Marta cooking Polish food for him and Lance doing the dishes – back when we were all happy, before I ruined so many things. I’m thrilled he got his job back though – I’d never forgive myself if Lance lost his chance at his dream career because of my carelessness.

“And Marta…” Iris continues thoughtfully. “I guess you could say she’s okay. She’s different. Married, and filthy rich. She lives in a mansion now instead of that old hovel in Knockturn Alley.”

“Married?” I can’t believe it. She settled down? “How…” But then something doesn’t click. “Rich? Who did she marry?”

“Tony Broadmoor, a chaser for the Falmouth Falcons. She met him through her previous boyfriend, the guitarist in Devil’s Snare – Marta’s definitely climbed up the social ladder these past few years. She and Tony married just before she got sent to Azkaban, so it’s been a couple of years now.”

And to think that one of the last times I saw her, she was on her way to a party with that bloke Connor from the pub, a party where Devil’s Snare were playing. It all started then, and I had no idea. So much has happened to my friends that I’ve missed, it’s like the people I used to know are nothing but ghosts, just memories.

“Wow,” is all I say.

“Yeah,” says Iris. 

Suddenly, an owl flies in through Iris’ open window and deposits a letter across my lap, and within five minutes, two more owls follow it. The first letter is from Mum and Dad, then one from James, and another from Mum using what looks like the neighbour’s owl.

Iris watches the letters pile up with amusement and waits until I’ve finished reading. “Well, how about we go see Lance? And maybe he can help you figure out what happened to those four years, if it had anything to do with that cube.”

“Sounds great,” I tell her as Albus’ owl swoops in the window and adds another letter to the pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***ducks while tomatoes are hurled* I know, I know. The truth is, I’ve always wanted to write a story where the narrator ends up forgetting the entire thing. So I did. But don’t worry! It’s not over yet.**
> 
> **Here’s some food for thought: did Lily manage to get back to her own universe where things have changed, or did Alternate Marta’s rewriting of history mean Lily didn’t actually leave that parallel universe? Did any of this happen at all or did she get out just in time? What happened to those years? I welcome your theories… and I hope I haven’t just confused you all beyond belief :P**


	18. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Uncle Percy rescues everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Renee!

Just as Iris and I are about to head across the hall to visit Lance (with Izzy in tow), Julian Apparates on the doorstep, home from work. He’s surprised to see Iris standing there too, and does a double take when he turns and sees me, greeting me with a warm hug and a lot of loud exclaiming. We stand out there in the corridor for a bit as I explain yet again that I have no memory of the past four years, and he continues to marvel and delight in the fact that I’m alive and okay. The commotion eventually draws Lance out of his flat across the corridor – his head appears in the space between the door and the jamb, and his eyes widen as he sees me.

“I thought it sounded like your voice out here, but I couldn’t believe it. Lily, it’s really you!” He opens the door all the way and comes out to hug me. At this point, Julian takes Izzy from Iris’ hip and goes back into the flat he shares with Iris, leaving Iris and me to catch up with Lance.

Lance invites us into his flat, and as I take off my shoes at the door I notice something looks slightly odd about my right foot, and now that I’m thinking about it, it kind of feels different, too. I take off my sock and almost scream when I see that there are only four toes on that foot. There’s no blood, in fact it looks like this is an old injury that’s healed, but clearly I have lost one of my toes and have no idea how it happened.

“What’s wrong? Lance asks.

“One of my toes is gone. Look, it’s not there.”

“One of your _toes?_ ” Iris repeats. I look up to see her and Lance sharing a glance. But I show them, and they’re as confused as I am.

Otherwise, my foot seems to be fine, aside from the huge shock it caused me from seeing a space where my small toe used to be, and having to adjust to the idea that this is how it is now. I’m more than a little rattled. But while I’ve been staring at it and panicking inside my head, Iris has been explaining what I’m sure will become a very oft-repeated story for me in the next few weeks: that I’m back and don’t know where I’ve been, and to me it hasn’t been four years, rather about four hours.

So we all go in and settle on the sofa, which is on the other side of the room than where it used to be. I wonder how long ago Lance rearranged the furniture in here. And then I notice that in a corner of the room are what appear to be almost all of Marta’s old welded sculptures.

“Why do you have Marta’s art?” I ask, distracted.

Lance looks at the sculptures in the corner, shares another brief glance with Iris, and then says simply, “She was going to get rid of them. She threw her old life away when she married that bloke.”

He doesn’t look at either of us as he says it. I sense that there’s a lot more to this story, but I don’t press it. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about Marta, and I don’t want to ruin this reunion by bringing up unpleasant ghosts from the past that I don’t understand. So I move us on.

“I can’t believe it’s been four years. When did you move the sofa?”

Lance laughs. “I dunno. A couple of years ago? I think this way makes the room look bigger.”

“Yeah.” Just as I’m wondering how long we should talk about other things before we address the elephant in the room and I can apologise for everything I’ve done and ask him the questions that have been plaguing me for the past hour, he brings it up anyway.

“So… you don’t remember any of it.”

“No, but I want to try and put together what happened. Iris said you had some theories – parallel universe?”

“Right…” Lance says, and then clears his throat, looking from me to Iris and back. “Er, I’m not sure how much Iris told you already, but after you disappeared we found something in your flat.”

“I told her everything I know,” Iris confirms.

I nod to Lance. “You found the cube.” I pause for a moment, and then my apology escapes in a flood. “I’m so sorry. I should never have had anything to do with it – it was horrible of me to experiment with it when it wasn’t mine in the first place. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you because of it.” There are tears building up in the corners of my eyes and I blink them away.

“Thanks,” says Lance calmly. “It’s okay.” At first this reaction is unexpected, but then I remember that while this is all so fresh to me, I’m apologising for events that happened years ago and Lance has more or less come to terms with it already.

So I sit there, quiet again. I feel very weird, and more than anything I want my friendships to return back to normal. As calm as Lance is, I very much doubt that he trusts me as much as he used to. I wouldn’t trust me, if I were him.

“That universe access device – the cube – was still in an early testing phase,” Lance says. “We knew it worked properly enough to send a person to an alternate universe. But we still weren’t ready to share that information with the public yet – there were a lot of kinks we had to work out of it. Like, one of the cameras we tested it on just got stuck in there.”

I shudder to think if that had happened to me. Maybe it did, and that’s why I can’t remember?

We end up discussing the possibilities for a while; Iris doesn’t have much to contribute, but she stays, as invested in finding out what happened to my missing years as I am. She also brings up the practical question of what I should tell people who ask about where I’ve been, because the parallel universe device isn’t generally known to people outside the Department of Mysteries. Lance sends an owl to his supervisor at work, and later on we get the response that I should say it was a spell gone wrong, which seems a very inadequate cover-up. Mum and Dad are not going to buy it. So there’s a bit more sending of owls back and forth about what I can tell my parents. And it seems they figure they’ve got to be completely honest with Harry Potter, because I’m given permission to tell him and Mum the whole truth.

Anyway, in between owl interruptions, I tell Lance that I used the cube once before and I remember it, and he reminds me that there are multiple, perhaps infinite, universes, and perhaps I visited a different universe the second time where something happened that made me forget.

“Or,” Lance adds, “it could be something else entirely. You know, time doesn’t necessarily move at the same speed in all universes. It’s possible that you experienced less than four years, but time moved slower there and when you came back, the shift to a faster universe impacted your memories. You could only be dealing with a few days of lost time, as far as we know.”

“My head hurts,” I admit. The truth of the matter is, there are so many possibilities of what could have happened, and unless I somehow regain my memory, there’s no way I’ll be able to know what it is I lost. But Lance’s information about the different speeds of time in different universes explains why I haven’t aged much, why I appear to the others to look exactly as I did four years ago. Although I’m still unsettled by the idea that I’ve lost time, it’s comforting to think it may not really have been four years for me, and was only days or months at most.

I hate that I’ve lost so much. But, I accept as I sit there, dwelling on it won’t really help, because things won’t change back to the way they were four years ago. I have to just pick up and move on, even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Some of this anxiety must have shown on my face, because with our conversation about parallel universes winding to a close, Iris suggests, “Hey, why don’t we all watch a film together, just like old times?”

A grin stretches across my face – the first one in a long time. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

Lance loves the idea too. “Oh, I’ve got one you’ll love, Lily, check it out: _Robot Woman vs. T. Rex_. You were always saying how annoyed you were that action movies never have enough female leads – this one’s brilliant. Are you hungry, by the way?”

“Actually, yeah. I don’t remember the last time I ate. Could have been years ago, literally…”

Lance gets up and digs around in his kitchen. “Er… there’s some leftover stir fry and noodles, soy egg… ah! I found some tinned baked beans. Do you want beans on toast?”

The comfort food of all comfort foods. “That would be perfect, thanks.”

A couple of Warming Charms later and Lance brings me a plate of food, and then we put on the film. It falls into the usual low standard of Lance’s movies, although at least the female lead is good. Iris falls asleep halfway through and starts snoring on my shoulder. Just like old times, indeed.

*

I wake up in the morning to find myself in unexpected surroundings, but then it all hits me again as I recall what an afternoon I had yesterday. Nestled in a pile of blankets on Lance’s sofa, I blink at the sun streaming in the window and experience an odd sense of déjà vu that I can’t place, because I can’t remember ever sleeping on Lance’s sofa before. After all, my own bed was literally just across the hall.

Now, of course, my old flat has no room for me. Last night Iris apologetically offered me the sofa there, but ultimately I took Lance up on his offer instead because it would have been too strange being a guest in the flat that used to be mine.

Today is the day I’m going to visit my family, and Mum and Dad have probably been up since dawn, prowling around the house waiting for me to show up. I suppose it’s time. So I send them an owl, just to make sure that now is a good time (after all, it’s Monday morning), and I get a prompt reply saying that Mum is home and Dad is Apparating back from the office in a moment. So after breakfast at Lance’s, I Apparate to Mum and Dad’s house and have about half a second before I’m engulfed in a tight hug.

“Mum—Dad—I can’t—breathe,” I gasp, and they loosen their grip on me slightly. Mum’s eyes are brimming with tears, and Dad is crying without restraint. It must have been awful for them these past four years, and I can’t help but feel guilty for causing all of this pain.

They ask me if I can remember anything – anything at all – from those four years, and I tell them no, and that all I know is that I was in a parallel universe but the Ministry wants to keep that quiet. Mum and Dad have all these questions, but it’s difficult because from my perspective nothing has happened – if it weren’t for Dad having a lot more grey in his hair, it would be as if I’d seen my parents just last week – so I have nothing to talk about except Lance’s space theories. Instead of talking about me, we mostly discuss what’s happened to them and to the rest of the family in the past few years.

Mum’s been covering some international Quidditch stories in the past few years which she’s loved for the travelling; Dad says his work is the same as ever and he’s thinking of doing a bit less of it now. And there are a lot of new things going on with the rest of the family: Albus and Scorpius are married now, which is lovely news although unsurprising considering they were Hogwarts sweethearts – they’ve been together forever. James’ second novel was a hit with Muggles, and he and his girlfriend Sarita are expecting a baby in two months. Granddad Arthur and Nana Molly have both passed away, about a year apart. Victoire and Teddy have a son. Hugo, who was my favourite cousin growing up, moved to Germany for a work opportunity. Altogether, a lot of good things, and some sad things. Life has gone on.

A loud crack interrupts us, and I hear James’ voice in the front hallway. “LILY?”

Mum looks at her watch. “I told him to wait at least an hour,” she says under her breath, and then directs her next statement to me. “Well, Lily, this means everyone is on their way over now. And by that I mean _everyone._ ”

Loud footsteps echo down the hall towards us, and James appears in the doorway. “LILY! IT’S YOU! I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Hi James!” I stand up just in time to be smothered in a hug, and then another crack of Apparation resonates in the room.

“Scorpius, you landed on my foot.”

“Not my fault your feet stick out that far.”

It seems married life has not changed Albus and Scorpius, because this sort of bickering was typical of them long before they actually got married.

James still hasn’t let go of me, but I notice the addition of four more arms as Albus and Scorpius get in on the hug, until Albus tells James to get out for a second because James already got a hug and now it’s Albus’ turn without him in the way. Only my family can make it feel like no time has passed, because my brothers are both children and always will be.

“Albus, Scorpius, hi!” I say, but my voice is slightly muffled by Albus’ left shoulder. “And I know I’m a couple of years late but congratulations!”

“Thank you!” says Scorpius with a grin. “It’s so good to finally see you again!”

“Welcome back,” Albus adds as he lets go a little. “Merlin, it’s been ages. Mum said you can’t remember much?”

“That’s right. To me, it’s almost as if we were all just here and I was watching James jinx your dinner and explode it.”

Albus laughs, then his expression softens into something more puzzled. “That’s so strange. I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

“Strange is correct,” I agree.

The noises of Apparation into the living room all around give the impression that we’re popcorn in a bowl; Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione rush in, followed by Hugo who has managed to get an international Portkey back from Germany to see me. Aunt Fleur is in tears. My cousin Louis has grown a beard and it makes him look like a lumberjack who lives in a hollowed-out tree. There are people everywhere and this massive reunion almost feels as if it’s Christmas, although without the scent of cinnamon and a crackling fire and Christmas pudding, and with the notable absence of two important people; the Weasley-Potter clan seems a bit lopsided without Nana Molly and Granddad Arthur.

The day moves on from questions to me that I can’t answer, to just a good old family gathering where the spotlight thankfully moves away from me. It is still quite overwhelming, but it’s good.

I suppose the news had to get out at some point; when the doorbell rings that afternoon and Roxanne skips over to answer it, expecting another friend or relative, she is instead greeted by a bright camera bulb flashing in her eyes. Without saying a word, she shuts the door, so all the reporter has to show is a picture of someone they don’t really know making an unimpressed face. Ten minutes later when the next reporter arrives, Uncle Percy greets the press and effectively fends them off by giving a long-winded soliloquy about cauldron safety until they go away.

But one thing is for sure: my return out of nowhere is probably going to be big news, splashed across the paper, and now rather than just being famous as Harry Potter’s daughter, I’m famous on my own merits now for something I don’t remember and which had its origins in mishandling government technology.

Grand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note: After all the cliff hangers and bizarre upsettings of the norm I’ve put you all through in the past few chapters, it was about time for some filler, right? :P Thanks for reading. I’d love to know what you thought!**


	19. A New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which silly names continue to be a family tradition.

When I wake up on Tuesday I seem to remember fragments of a dream about being on a spaceship, and it was quite a pleasant dream, but it’s gone like fog before I can fully recall any of it. The harder I try to remember it, the more distant and abstract it becomes until I can’t even remember if it happened at all, as always happens with dreams. So I put on my glasses and begin my day, which is likely to be less interesting than a day on a spaceship.

When I appear in the kitchen, Dad is already cooking up breakfast and offers me some, which I gratefully accept. As I sleepily flip through the morning’s _Daily Prophet_ , a photo catches my eye, and it takes a moment for the image to fully register with me. A man in stylish dress robes is smiling at the camera, and holding his arm is a woman in a glamourous and expensive-looking silvery gown. My heart does a slow flip as I realise who it is; I barely recognise her anymore, but it’s Marta.

Long gone is her punk hairstyle of years ago; her hair is long and glossy now, hanging in perfect waves. And the dress is gorgeous. She looks like the sort of woman who would never climb into bins looking for new dishes. Although she’s smiling widely for the camera, the joy doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

It makes me wonder what kind of reunion I’ll have with her; I don’t know what to expect. It’s like she’s not even the same person anymore. When I was gone, she betrayed me, regretted it and went to prison, and married a famous person. Will I still be as important to her as I used to be? After all, I’ve been back more than a full day and haven’t heard from her. I guess it’s time to see what our friendship is really made of. Of course, everything will probably be fine, but I can’t help but feel a sliver of doubt now, and I don’t like it. She’s too important to me.

Last night after the sudden family reunion, I stayed in my old room at Mum and Dad’s place. I think I’ll be there for a little while, at least until I can find a new flat, since I’d be an imposition living at Iris’ busy flat (it’s still weird to call it that, since for so long it was mine too, and now is so suddenly not) or on Lance’s sofa.

I flip a few pages in the newspaper to look at who’s put hiring adverts in, but nothing really stands out. It’s such a shame, because I’d been all set up with an interview before everything happened, and maybe it’d have led to a job, but there’s no way to know now because I’ve missed the interview by four years. I’m also a bit worried about the state of my CV, which has a decent employment record up until the part where I have nothing for four and a half years. That’s bound to get noticed, and I have no sufficient way to explain it.

“Finding anything good?” Dad asks as he sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of me, which I gratefully accept.

“Thanks. And, er, not really.” I rest my head in my hands, my elbows perched on the table.

Dad gives me a sympathetic grimace. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Wish there was something I could do. But you’ll get through it.”

“Thanks.” After another moment of wallowing, I pull my breakfast plate towards me and dig in.

And indeed things do start to look brighter later that morning when Iris’ owl flies in through the window and drops a letter onto the table over the remnants of my breakfast:

_Lily! I know you’re job searching right now and I just found out Flourish and Blotts is hiring. I repeat, FLOURISH AND BLOTTS IS HIRING. THINK OF ALL THE BOOKS. Just thought I’d share in case you’re interested!_  
Iris x  
P.S. Come over for dinner tonight! Marta’s going to be here! 

Flourish and Blotts sounds like it’d be fun – at least a great starting point. I send Iris a quick note of thanks for letting me know, and in the afternoon I Apparate to Diagon Alley and step into the shop to collect an application.

Of course, I am recognised about five seconds after I walk in - Harry Potter’s daughter who just reappeared after being missing for years! Spell accident, I tell them. The girl at the cash register asks if I was Vanished. I tell her it kind of feels like that.

Ultimately when I hand them my application, they’re far more interested in what happened to me than what I have to offer as an employee. I attempt to guide the conversation away from my past and instead focus on my love of books, but it’s difficult trying to avoid talking about yourself when you are applying for a job, as that sort of thing obviously necessitates talking about yourself. It’s a bit weird, but at least they understand why I have nothing on my CV since late 2031; I had thought explaining that would be the hard part, but since everyone seems to know some muddled version of the story through the news, it isn’t as bad as I predicted, apart from telling a very repetitive story. Finally we just chat about books and it’s a lot more comfortable.

They say they’ll contact me in a week or so, and I leave feeling like I’ve made a little progress. Then I’m back home and back to scanning the _Daily Prophet_ adverts for rooms to let.

After a day well spent being a responsible adult, I’m back at Iris and Julian’s (formerly my) flat. Iris greets me with a huge hug, and after a bit of small talk about how our day went, we start cooking dinner together. It’s nice and familiar, and I cherish moments like this even more now.

Not long after Iris wonders aloud when Marta will be here, a magnificent snowy owl swoops in and delivers a letter to Iris. “That’s Marta’s owl,” she says as she unrolls the letter, so I scoot in to read over her shoulder.

_Iris-_  
Sorry, have to cancel for tonight. Tony has some Quidditch team event on and I have to be there. We could meet on Friday instead, if you want? Say hi to Lily for me.  
M x 

I stare at it in disbelief. _Say hi_? That’s all, after four years? Does she really care that little?

It’s not terribly unlike Marta to give almost no notice for something, but I’d have thought this would be important to her. Perhaps I don’t really know her anymore, the person she's become.

Iris looks up at me apologetically. “Try not to take it personally,” she finally says. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I’m sure she does want to see you.”

“Does she?” I can’t help asking. “I’m a footnote in that letter. She hasn’t written anything to me yet.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t, when you suddenly showed up sitting there on the floor. Anyway, have you written to her yet?”

“No,” I admit. It’s because I didn’t know what to say. Perhaps I really can’t blame Marta, and a sideways look from Iris indicates she’s thinking the same thing. So I ask, “Is she… very different now?”

Iris looks out the window for a second, perhaps compiling her thoughts. “She spends most of her time these days with a group of socialites including other Quidditch players’ significant others and associated celebrities. So that’s different. But she’s got nothing in common with any of that group, and she knows it. You know Marta – she’s so unconventional, and just doesn’t belong with all these sophisticated people. And Tony doesn’t appreciate Marta’s brilliance – like he doesn’t realise how intelligent she is, or else he just doesn’t care, and it’s… her new social status has crushed her spirit. Fame and fortune haven’t been good to her. I never thought I’d say it, but I miss the old, vulgar Marta. At least she was happy.”

I get the feeling Iris has wanted to say some of this for a long time. And before I can get a word in, Iris continues, the deluge of words and worries flowing out like a broken dam. “She never even does her sculptures or painting anymore. It was so important to her before, and then when she moved up in society, she just dumped all of it to try to become someone else. That’s why Lance has all of them now.”

“I’d noticed that,” I admit, “but he didn’t seem keen to talk about it.”

Iris shakes her head. “Poor Lance. He was the only one who regularly visited Marta when she was in Azkaban, you know. Julian and I tried, but we didn’t have enough time, with a new baby in the house, so we only made it out there two or three times. Tony stopped visiting about three months in – said he had Quidditch going on all the time, but he’d send her letters. But Lance…” Iris pauses for a moment and sighs. “He visited her every week, because he knew no one else was, and she told me later that she always looked forward to his visits, even though she felt like she didn’t deserve a friend as generous as Lance. And still, after she got out, she went back to her new social circle of people who don’t care about her. I don’t know. She craves affection, she always has, but it’s like she doesn’t believe she deserves it.”

Despite how complicated some things have gotten, and how far Marta seems to have drifted into the world of the rich and famous, Iris assures me that the friendships within our group have survived everything. In the case of Marta and Iris, they’re actually closer than ever, which started with Iris’s unplanned pregnancy and her difficulties with getting promoted at work in favour of men who wouldn’t be taking leave. This makes a lot of sense to me; Marta was always good at being there for people during tough times, because she found struggle relatable. She’d been very close to Iris during Iris’ lowest points with her eating disorder in school, after all. So as I interpret Iris’ words now, I think that Iris’ recent life changes chipped away at the image of perfection she worked so hard to cultivate, which ultimately kind of humanised her in Marta’s eyes.

In that respect, my far-flung story of disappearance and incredible reappearance immediately splashed across the tabloids must be wholly distant from her. Far from struggling through tough times, I would seem so superior, an amazing spectacle for doing nothing. And there’s probably some residual bitterness about how my using the universe device was what got her sent to prison.

As Iris and I finish eating, Julian returns home with Izzy. Between yesterday and today I’d sort of forgotten Iris has a child now. But it’s nice that she had an evening off at least, while Izzy was over at her grandparents’ place with Julian.

Their arrival essentially puts an end to our gossip session, as Iris’ attention is now divided, but I’m glad we’ve had some time to ourselves. So eventually I bid all of them goodbye and Apparate back to my parents’ place.

At home, I finally write a short letter to Marta and send it with Platypus, my parents’ new owl. (Uncle Ron named him. He and Mum have somewhat of a tradition of giving each other’s owls stupid names.) I wait for two hours, but don’t receive a reply.

*

The next morning, an owl flies in through the kitchen window with a letter for me, and although I sincerely hope it’s from Marta, or at least maybe it’s a response to my application with Flourish and Blotts, it turns out to be from Lance. He says there’s someone at the Ministry who wants to meet me. Her name is Indira Agrawal, and she came from a parallel universe herself and got stuck here, and now is having issues remembering, and perhaps we can talk?

I respond affirmatively. Why not? Maybe we can help each other. Lance owls back asking about ten thirty this morning, and here we are.

Ten minutes early, I walk in to meet them at the Ministry, down to the Department of Mysteries on the ninth floor. Just outside the doorway with Lance, Ms Agrawal is already there, a small Indian woman who looks to be about seventy. Her greeting to me is very enthusiastic – this is probably the first time she’s had anyone come close to being able to relate to what she’s been through, even if I can’t entirely.

“So you’re Lily Potter,” she says, shaking my hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve been waiting thirty years for this.”

I stare at her. “You mean… you’ve been trapped here for thirty years?” I suppose that’s far worse than finding four years missing. After that long, she must have had to entirely restart her life. Then I look at Lance – couldn’t he have helped her before now?

“Yes,” says Agrawal. “By this point I’ve spent close to half of my life here.”

Again, I’m essentially speechless, but before I can put together an intelligent thing to say, Lance suggests that we all go sit down in a room off this hallway where we can have a proper conversation.

There’s only the one door on this level, at the end of the corridor – or so I had thought, but Lance leads us forwards a few paces away from the door and walks straight through the wall on the left side, somewhat like the entrance to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at Kings Cross. Agrawal and I follow him through the marble wall into an empty room, small and sparsely furnished, with elegant oak paneling. We sit down on the overstuffed armchairs, and after a moment I ask Ms Agrawal how she got here, thirty years ago.

She sighs, and waits for a moment before replying. “That’s a difficult answer, now. I can’t recall. I don’t remember anything before I was forty, and… I think I used to remember my old life in my original universe, but I can’t anymore. I’m afraid I’m getting old.”

“But only a week ago she told a story about when she was a teenager,” Lance adds, and then turns to Agrawal. “About your sister’s wedding. You remembered all of it until recently.”

“My sister?”

There’s a brief silence in the room before I clarify, “So you know that you came from a parallel universe, but you don’t remember it? How do you know that that’s what it was, then?”

Lance speaks up again. “Because she works with me, and I’ve heard bits of her story for almost the past two years.”

Agrawal nods. “All I know about my previous life is what Lance has told me – what I told him before. I ended up here because of an accident in space. I worked at a research station on a different planet and there was an accident in a cave. But my memory starts with finding myself drifting in the middle of the Mediterranean thirty years ago. Lance, did I ever say what planet it was?”

“Balthazar?” Lance replies. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Neither have I,” says Agrawal.

Suddenly, everything about this very weird meeting clicks with me. “So… you forgetting everything kind of coincided with me coming back, didn’t it?”

“It seems that way,” says Agrawal. “That’s why I thought maybe we could help each other.”

“Are you trying to get back home to the universe you left?” I ask.

She is silent for a moment, and then says, “I don’t think so. My life is here now, and I no longer even remember the life I had before.

“After my first few months here,” Agrawal goes on, “after I’d been found in the ocean and brought back to England, and discovered I’d gone back in time and arrived in a version of Earth very different to the one I had known, I learnt to stay quiet about where I came from. Asking at the Ministry back then didn’t yield anything. The technology to get me home didn’t exist. So I started over. I eventually started working in the astronomy research division here. After about seven years it was clear I wasn’t going home, and I remarried. I know it was a remarriage, because I remember still feeling loyalty to my spouse back home for the first few years I was here, but now I don’t remember who I was married to in my first life. I belong here now, with everything I’ve built up since then.”

“That makes sense,” I agree. And to think of all she went through, rebuilding her life after it had all been swept away. The courage it must have taken, the determination. After hearing her story, I’m more confident than ever that I can deal with a loss of only four years. Time will go on, and things will be okay.

But how hard must it be, to know you left behind a family and friends who have missed you for thirty years, and not have any memory of them? Would the lack of memory make the loss easier to bear because you don’t remember them anyway? Or harder, because in forgetting people that were once so integral to who you are, you’ve lost some of yourself, and you’ll always be wondering who they are?

After all, I very much miss my Nana Molly and Granddad Arthur, but I have many years of memories of them being happy and full of life and sharing stories and hugs and woolly jumpers. I can’t imagine losing that, as if they’d never existed. I would know, even if I couldn’t remember them, that I was missing something important.

I look up and have a suspicion that Agrawal has asked me a question, because she and Lance are watching me, and I feel a bit guilty that I’ve gotten lost in thought again.

“Sorry?”

“I asked how you’re dealing with it,” says Agrawal kindly. “After all, it’s so fresh for you.”

“Yeah. It’s all right,” I say. “It’s not been that long, though, and everything’s still weird. A lot has changed. It’s hard to get a job. And my grandparents passed away while I was gone, and I never got to say goodbye.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear,” she says. “I’m sure they knew you loved them.”

Indira Agrawal and I end up talking for a while, about how she started her life over, about how we’ve both had odd dreams involving spaceships in the past week and that it may not be a dream after all, how she wonders if she has grandchildren in her original world whom she’s never met, how my paternal grandparents were like that to me and I grew up thinking of them as heroes. Lance sits there silently for a while, then leaves, then eventually returns with three mugs of tea.

It’s probably been an hour and a half by the time our conversation starts to slow down, and during a silence, Lance speaks up. “We’ve fully worked all of the bugs out of the parallel universe access cube, by the way,” he says. “And we’ve also made the decision to destroy it. But before we do so, Indira, you have the opportunity to use it to return to the world you left, if you want to. I know you said you were probably uninterested, but I just want to confirm with you that you do want to stay here. The choice is yours. You can think about it for a while, but let me know when you’ve decided, and we’ll destroy it.”

Indira closes her eyes for a moment. Her key to all that missing history is within reach, but at what cost? She essentially has to decide whether she prefers her life as it is now, or what she thinks it might have used to be. But it will have changed since she left. She’d be starting over again, uprooted once more. Her loved ones back home may have been wondering for thirty years what happened to her. But certainly it’d be hard to leave the people in her life here.

“I’m staying,” says Indira finally. “In fact, I’d love to watch the cube get destroyed, if I’m permitted to.”

“Me too,” I agree.

However, Indira arrived here via an accident and actually works in the Ministry, whereas I was the one who used the cube despite knowing it was stolen, so only Indira is allowed to. Lance looks apologetic when he explains this to me, but I suppose it’s fair, and I can’t really complain. So she goes in, and I continue sitting in the room, swirling the remaining tea in my mug that’s gone cold, just thinking.

Indira returns about twenty minutes later, as I’m trying to decide if there is a Grim in my mug. She seems surprised that I waited for her, even though I told her I would.

“How was it?” I ask.

“I think we made the right decision.”

And I agree. There are some things that maybe humans shouldn’t play with. Certainly not until we understand all the repercussions. (If only I’d learnt that before I messed around with interdimensional technology, but on the bright side I do seem to have learnt from my mistakes.)

It’s strange to be about to part ways with Indira, the only human on the face of the planet (who I know of) who has been through an experience similar to mine. During this short morning I’ve come to see her almost as a third grandmother. And that’s kind of comforting.

“It’s been nice talking to you,” I tell her. “I’m glad I was able to meet you. I’d love to keep in touch.”

She smiles, her eyes crinkling around the corners. “I’d really like that as well.”

“I could be your granddaughter.” After all, I have no living grandparents anymore, and Indira doesn’t have any grandchildren. At least we could both get something really valuable and worthwhile out of this mess we ended up in.

We part ways with a hug, and I leave the Ministry feeling much more confident about my ability to get my life back together. Things will get easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This wasn’t ever directly stated, and I know a lot has been going on plot-wise, so just an explanation to clear up any possible confusion: Time moves faster in Lily’s original universe than it does in Indira’s (i.e. the one Lily got lost in). So when five months elapsed in the Alternate Universe, it was four years in the Original Universe. Three years in the AU (the time since Indira vanished, according to the crew/logs) was thirty for her in the OU. Get it? Fab.
> 
> I probably re-wrote this chapter about six times, but I think I’m finally happy with it. And with that, we’re almost there, folks – with any luck this novel will be finished by the end of the year! Once again thank you so much for reading! If you have a second, let me know what you thought – reviews make my world go round!


	20. Unforgettable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I hallucinate that I have gills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to you, the reader. You rule.

In the month and a half since I’ve arrived back in a changing world, a lot has happened. I now have a job stocking shelves at Flourish and Blotts, and I moved into a flat that smells of hamsters. But this job and this flat, they’re both mine, and I’m happy. I feel like I’m making progress. And given the nature of my flat, things can only get better from here. I have a lot of opportunity for more progress to be made.

(To be fair, when I first visited the flat, it smelled like cleaning products. I assumed at the time that this was because it had just been cleaned, but it was to cover the other smells. I only discovered after I moved in that the other renter has four parakeets, two hamsters, and a ferret. The parakeets keep getting out of their cage and flapping around the kitchen, which is a nuisance when I’m trying to cook, but otherwise I guess it’s okay. Candace is nice, even if she’s a bit mad. And the rent is cheap.)

The first time I saw Marta again was my birthday. I think I turned twenty-five. I don’t really know, though. In a way, the number defining age has really ceased to matter, if it ever did. It’s just a number.

Anyway, Iris and Julian hosted a birthday party for me – it was just them, Lance, and me, and then Marta and her new husband Tony came in, about an hour after the rest of us amid a rush of swishy fabrics and floral-scented hair potions. Marta swept right up to me and kissed me on the cheek, and I managed to not swoon while Tony was watching, but I’m sure my face went a bit red. She told me about how much she’d missed me, how busy she was now, and that she just came back from Poland where she’d finally met her mother. And I was finally able to let go of my bitterness that Marta wouldn’t answer my letters and hadn’t come to see me immediately – she really was so happy to see me, and she meant it. I could see it in her eyes.

So things are settling down. Not back to what they were – that time is gone and past. But I’m getting used to a new definition of normal.

It’s early October now. Since it’s a Saturday, this morning I went to visit Indira and learnt to make samosas. (Meaning that she made them and I just helped cut up some potatoes and onions, really.) But we had a nice chat – I told her about my new job, and she told me she’s finally saved up enough to retire from hers and take a holiday to somewhere tropical.

When I get home, there are four new letters on the table addressed to ‘The Lovely and Brilliant Ms Candace Truong’. Candace has a new girlfriend who is either very clingy or just very enthusiastic about everything. I haven’t decided yet. And one of the parakeets is loose – from the wing colouring, I think it’s Belinda. Belinda has a bit of twine around her leg and I deduce that Candace has once again spent the morning trying to train her parakeets to deliver letters. Vaguely I wonder if the letters on the table were delivered by Belinda or by owl. It’d be kind of useful if Candace’s birds end up being able to carry letters, because neither of us actually has an owl.

Suddenly curious, I write a note to myself, manage to hold Belinda still long enough to attach the small scroll to her foot, and set her free. She flaps around the room twice and comes back to me, but I’m not sure whether that’s because she knows the letter is for me, or because she’s just saying hello again.

Tonight, my cousin Louis’ band is playing at some pub – apparently they’ve gotten somewhat successful in the past few years – and he asked me to go. I was with Iris and Julian when I got the note from him and they seemed interested (or at least Julian did, and he convinced Iris). And then Iris told Marta, who told Tony, who told his Quidditch team, and I told Candace and she told her girlfriend and so now I kind of have to go too. It’ll probably be kind of fun, anyway. Turns out I’m actually a pretty great promotion agent for Louis.

With a free afternoon before then, though, I settle down to relax on the sofa with a mug of tea and a mystery novel, and I read happily as the sun makes its way across the sky outside the small window, only stopping just as the light starts to fade.

Iris, Julian, Marta, Lance, and I have planned to meet at the pub at seven for dinner before the band starts up at eight, and all of us show up on time except Marta. Although it’s big for a pub, it’s a small venue for music, with a little stage set up in the corner. I like it. Lance, Iris, Julian, and I sit at the bar, wait for ten minutes, and then order our dinner and drinks; Marta will show up when she shows up.

Two things happen as we finish our dinner: the band starts up, and Marta and Tony arrive, followed by the six other players on the Falmouth Falcons. Marta zips right into the small crowd and begins to dance, and I follow her. We end up in the middle of the group, most of whom I know personally. My cousins Dominique and Roxy are near the wall up front, and Albus and Scorpius are sitting at the bar. Dancing up in the front I can also see Candace and her blue-haired girlfriend Thalia, arms waving wildly. They’re wearing identical silver blazers with shoulder pads.

The singer of the Misunderstood Heliopaths is a woman with a magnificent sphere of curly hair. Behind her, there’s a woman playing a sitar, a mournful-looking bloke with a cello, and a rather androgynous, dark-haired person in a trench coat who’s playing the saw. Louis is on drums. He’s even wearing a flannel shirt, which reinforces my opinion that his new beard makes him look like a lumberjack.

But, credit where credit is due: Louis’ band is a lot of fun. I spend about half the time dancing and being ridiculous with Marta, and even Lance joins the dancing for a song or two, and the other half of the time is back at the bar downing glasses of water and chatting with Iris. All the dancing is making me thirsty.

By the time the band finishes around ten, Iris and Julian have already left, because they can’t stay out late now that they have a toddler (not that Iris was good at staying out past nine p.m. before). Now that there’s not much going on anymore aside from scattered people still chatting at the bar, our group has kind of diverged into two separate conversations. Marta is sitting with Tony and a few of his teammates – most of them are loud, but Marta’s just slowly stirring the ice around and around her drink with her straw. It’s odd to see her so subdued compared to twenty minutes ago. Occasionally she smiles at Tony, but as someone who is thoroughly familiar with Marta’s commendable acting skills, I can see through this flimsy performance. Clearly, the illusion of love has worn off for her, but she’s trying to stick it out, just to prove that she can. I guess I’m impressed at her resolve, but I hate that it comes at the price of her happiness.

I’m next to Lance, so I also can’t help noticing that when Marta isn’t watching the ice melt in her drink or beaming for Tony, she sometimes looks up at Lance, and at other times, he watches her – but never at the same time. It’s kind of depressing to see them be so miserable. I never thought I’d see the day when Lance fell for Marta, but it’s clear as day that he has. And even more amazingly, it’s mutual. But of course, they’re just stuck like that.

Louis shows up by my shoulder so suddenly that I swear he Apparated there, and he hugs me. “Thanks for coming, Lil!”

“Of course. You lot were great!”

Then Louis puts a pipe on the bar next to me. “Did you know you can smoke Gillyweed? I just tried it. Here.”

I laugh, as this reminds me of Marta smoking it in a Muggle pub years ago. “Er… you _can_ , but why would you want to?”

But he’s already gone, now talking to a girl with dreadlocks a few feet away down the bar.

So what else am I to do? Maybe it’s better than it smells? I clumsily fill the pipe and light it, choke on it a bit, and offer it to Lance next to me, who stares blankly at it.

“That smells horrific,” he says. “No thanks.”

“Just pretend to, then,” I suggest. “Marta’s watching. Maybe she’ll join us.”

Lance stares at the pipe for a moment before taking it, and a gagging noise beside me tells me that he has indeed tried it. He hands it back to me. “Never again,” he insists through a haze of thick smoke, and I cough again as the cloud of smoke engulfs me as well.

For a brief moment, Marta looks over at the two of us coughing and sputtering, and a grin flits across her face. “Fucking amateurs,” she mutters. But then she looks back at Tony, and leaves Lance and me to our experiment.

I’ve never smoked Gillyweed before, and neither has Lance, and it’s apparent when I feel a weird sensation and look over at him. He examines his hand closely, as if looking for something, so I look too – it appears to be the beginning of webbing between the fingers. But maybe that’s a hallucination.

“Does this go away?” he hisses. “What did you give me?”

“Does your neck feel weird?” I ask. I rub the side of my own neck, attempting to determine if this odd sensation relates to anything visible, any gills, for example, but my fingers find nothing out of the ordinary.

“Maybe you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, his eyes wide. “Is your throat closing?”

“No, is yours?”

“No.”

I can’t help but wonder what Marta likes about this. I reach along the bar to offer Louis’ pipe to her, but she turns it down. Maybe it would make her look bad in front of her friends. Or maybe she doesn’t smoke Gillyweed anymore because it’s awful. I wouldn’t blame her – I’m sure this will be my only time.

When Tony’s teammates eventually head out, leaving just Tony, Marta, Lance, and me, Lance takes it as his cue to leave as well, because it’s too close to being alone with Marta. I start gathering my things together as well, because I’m tired and have been socialising for hours, but then I see the girl at the other end of the bar, the girl with dreadlocks to whom Louis was talking earlier. As I’m watching her, she looks up and our eyes meet from across the bar, a long, lingering glance. She gives me a little smile, and I move over to stand by her. She’s watching me pensively, with knitted brows, and I find it very charming.

“You seem incredibly familiar,” she says. “Have we met before?”

Yeah, well, she’s probably seen a picture of me in the paper. Everyone thinks I look familiar. The odd thing is that she looks familiar too, but I can’t think why. Maybe I remember her from ages ago at Hogwarts?

“I was just wondering the same thing about you,” I admit out loud. “But no, I don’t think we have.”

“Well, I’m Celeste,” she says, and holds out her hand, which I shake.

“I’m Lily,” I tell her. “Let me buy you a drink.”

And so I sit down again. She smiles at me. She has a lovely smile. We order drinks, and I rub the side of my neck just to triple-check that I don’t have gills. I don’t often (or… ever?) buy drinks for strangers, but there’s just something about her.

“Were you here for the band?” she asks.

“Yeah. The drummer is my cousin. Do you know him too? I thought I saw you talking to him earlier.”

She nods. “I’ve been best friends with Louis and Alex since Hogwarts. Alex is the saw player.”

And then something changes in her eyes, like she’s just figured something out. “You’re Louis’ cousin – so, okay, I know why I’ve seen you before. You’re Lily Potter.”

Usually this annoys me, but from Celeste it doesn’t. She just stated it as a fact, as if she’d completed a puzzle, and with no star-struck admiration. And she doesn’t ask me about my disappearance or anything, which is nice. Maybe she’s figured I get enough of that question.

So I just say, “Yeah.”

“Find me on the other side.”

“What?” I ask.

Celeste’s eyebrows draw slightly closer together in puzzlement. “I didn’t say anything,” she says.

“But…” I begin, and then stop. It sounded exactly like her, and so clear. If I wasn’t hearing Celeste, who is this voice in my head that sounds like her? Celeste is starting to look concerned, so I laugh off my mistake, because that seems like the right thing to do rather than fixate on voices I heard in my head. It’s too early for this; I don’t want to make a bad impression.

So I ask her about what other music she likes, and we talk about music, and then we talk about space for a little bit (she’s an astronomer), and we talk about books, and before I know it, it’s closing time. As we stand together on the pavement just outside the pub, I tell Celeste, “It was really nice meeting you.”

“You too,” she says, and then after a pause: “What are you doing on Friday?”

“Something with you?” I ask hopefully, a smile stretching across my face.

She grins too, her smile radiant in the dark. “I’ll send you an owl in the next few days.”

Or maybe I’ll send her a parakeet. Who knows. What I do know is that it’ll be difficult keeping the smile off my face until then.

Celeste disappears in a twirl of robes, and I turn right and start to head towards my flat, on foot, rather than Apparating. It’s warm for October, so I decide to walk the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finished!(?!!?!?!?!) Thanks so much to all of you who took this journey with me. I am so glad to know there were people out there reading and enjoying this story – I really appreciate you taking the time to read. Much love.
> 
> First thank you is to Erin, who hosted the sci-fi challenge on HPFF way back in 2014. I didn’t expect it would drop me down a years-long rabbit hole of what-ifs, but it’s been really fun writing this story. So, thank you for prompting me to write it.
> 
> Extra special thanks to those of you lovely readers who left me kudos and/or reviews. Whether it was one review, many reviews, short or long, I treasured every single message. You made this story worth writing.
> 
> Special shout-outs to Emily, Kiana, Julie, Meg, and Joseph, who were among my first consistent reviewers, and if you hadn’t all been there to encourage me in the beginning and convince me that this story was actually worth telling and not just an absurd experiment that only existed to entertain myself, I might have given up, so I can’t thank you enough for your support. Love to all of you and thanks for all the wonderful words!
> 
> Additional gigantic thanks and hugs to Sam, Bianca, Jill(s), Emmi, Plums, pottered, teh, Tammi, and Jayde. Thanks for all the love and encouragement. You are fantastic.
> 
> Thanks to Renee, who left some really thoughtful reviews just at the time when I was starting to lose steam on this story and whose enthusiasm always motivated me. Thank you. (And thanks for that gorgeous picspam omg.)
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a HUGE thank you and many hugs go to Chiara, who was almost always the first person to review, and not only that, but she reviewed every chapter, which was so valuable to me and it made my day every time. Also, Chiara, the first review you ever left for me was on this story, and I had no idea at the time that it would result in this wonderful friendship that’s lasted years! ♥ Here’s to many more! Thank you for being so amazing!
> 
> I really appreciate each and every one of you who read this story. Thank you all so much.


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